


The Promise of Better Days

by xcourtney_chaoticx



Series: "Oh, There You Are" Universe [5]
Category: Emergency!
Genre: Aromantic Characters, Asexual Characters, Backstory, Beginnings, Companion Piece, Developing Friendships, Gen, Slow Burn, but a friendship slow burn?, original lesbian characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-27 07:58:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 133,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9984197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xcourtney_chaoticx/pseuds/xcourtney_chaoticx
Summary: Brice has planned for this for years it feels like, carefully saving his funds, spending only what he needed to spend, making sure his old truck was complete working order. He was never really sure where exactly he was going to go, but as he reads the newspaper article for the hundredth time, he finally knows what he's going to do.Bob knows he needs to make a change, has been floating through the department for years, and even though this is his dream job and he would never want to do anything else, he's been waiting for the moment when a partner makes the department feel truly like home. He just wishes the wait weren't so damn long.Companion piece to 'Oh, There You Are,' though it's not necessary to read that first. Notes inside.(Updates weekly on Thursdays.)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This started life as a little fic about how Brice got to LA and why he's there, but it's sort of gotten out of hand? This is a multichapter fic that acts as a companion to my other long multichapter for Emergency, 'Oh, There You Are,' and while this fic will reference that one, it's not necessary to read that first. (Of course, I would always appreciate it.)
> 
> This is currently rated teen and up, but I shift that up later depending on some potentially sexually explicit scenes. I will always warn at the beginning for sexual content and any other potentially triggering material. I hope you'll all enjoy this as much as I do <3

In the beginning of April 1970, he walks into the bank, takes out all his money, and goes home to pack. It’s already getting hot in Northern Florida. He’s managed to save a good deal of money, has worked since he was fourteen at various local farms, has lived at home. Now, he’s ready to go, and he’s sure everyone else can’t wait for him to go, too. He hasn’t told anyone except his boss he’s leaving. _I’m simply going to tell them I’m leaving, say goodbye, and leave._ There would be no fanfare, no tearful farewells, no parties.

He’s bought some old suitcases. He’s hoarded cardboard boxes and old newspapers. The packing won’t take long. He starts with his clothes, filling each suitcase methodically, one type of clothing at a time, quickly but carefully folding each item. The last thing he picks up is the most important. The deep blue corduroy has faded to a purplish color from wear and being worn outdoors. He looks over the back of the jacket, fingers tracing over the gold-colored emblem bearing an owl, a plow, a rising sun. Flipping it over to look at the front, he sees the emblem smaller on the left breast, the right embroidered with ‘Craig Brice/Vice President/1965-1967’ in the same gold thread. _My FFA jacket._ Newberry FFA is the only place he has ever felt remotely accepted, and he will miss the advisor, the students, the camaraderie. He has outgrown the jacket, knows it no longer serves a useful purpose, but he cannot bear to part with it. It is carefully packed away.

Next go the belongings. He has few awards and fewer photographs, all from his time in FFA, some from his stint on the high school track team. Each one gets carefully wrapped in newspaper and placed in a box, each box meticulously labeled. The books take the most time. He packs those alphabetically, labels each box, and then he’s ready to load his truck. The old farm truck still drives well, just as well as when Mr. Sweeting sold it to him in ’66 for a hundred dollars. He’s going to write Mr. Sweeting, too, when he arrives in LA. _It’s good no one is home._ Everyone else is at work or school, and while it’s hard to load everything by himself, it’s preferable to having to explain himself and receive no help anyway. He’s rigged a tarp to cover the bed in case he meets bad weather along his journey.

He loads the last box as his older sister comes home. His heart gives an uncomfortable flop. _Of everyone who could have come home first…_

“Craig, what are you doin’?” she asks.

“I would think that obvious. I am packing up my truck to leave.”

“For good?”

“Most likely.”

She looks conflicted. He’s never particularly gotten on well with his family or with anyone simply because he’s a bit different from everyone else. His sister at least likes him a bit, cared for him in a way their parents never cared for them. She asks, “Where ya goin’?”

“Los Angeles.”

“Why didn’t ya tell anyone?”

“I told Mr. Sweeting at the farm so he would know when my last day was, but I assumed he would be the only one who would particularly care,” he answers, “He gave me the boxes.”

“Ya really think you’re gonna be so much better off in LA?”

“I do, Cate.”

She gives a quick nod, thinking, and tells him, “Then I wish ya the best of luck, ‘lil brother. I hope ya can find ya need out there… hope ya can finally find peace.”

“Thank you… I hope so, too.”

He knows she means it. _She’s the only one I really wanted to say goodbye to, anyway._ He writes out a quick note for the rest of his family, for his parents and younger brother, telling them he’s leaving and will not be coming back but would write them when he arrived.

Then he leaves.

He drives well into the night, finally pulling into a truck stop and laying across his bench seat for a few hours of sleep. The relief he feels grows with every town he passes through and every state line he crosses, pure relief at being out of that house and that town. He loves the new sights and the wind in his hair and the fact that he’s a stranger. No one knows him anymore. The places he walks into don’t immediately fill with the soft hiss of whispers or immediately fall silent because they were just talking about him. The people don’t stare at him with contempt, only stare because he is new, a traveler. Every so often when he stops, he’ll pull out the tattered newspaper article and reread it, remembering why he finally decided to get out of Newberry, out of Florida, away from a place where everyone knows him and none of them truly like him.

He almost cries when he reaches California and again when he reaches LA. He does cry once he gets settled into his hotel room, the realization and relief washing over him. _I’m free._ Sure, he probably won’t make many friends here, either, but at least it’s a big city. He can blend into a big city. He reads the article again, takes in as much information as he can.

The next day, he goes to the headquarters for the Los Angeles County Fire Department.

“It’s about another six weeks before the next Academy class begins,” the recruiter explains, “If you’re interested, there’s a group that meets there a couple times a week to work on some fitness goals to help prepare for the training. Here’s all the info for ya, Brice. Got important dates, numbers, things like that. Any other questions?”

“Yes. I’m interested primarily in the paramedic program. I understand that it’s still very new and likely has a great many applicants, but I would appreciate any information on how I could work towards joining the program in the future, sir.”

“And you came all the way from Florida for this program?”

“Yes, sir. I did.”

“I think I could do that for you then, Mr. Brice,” the man smiles, “Umm… here you go. This was strictly for departmental purposes, but it is the material we used to recruit the first few classes. Don’t think it’ll hurt to let you have it.”

“Thank you, sir. I greatly appreciate it.”

When he returns to his hotel room, he looks at the papers and cries again. Craig Brice finally feels like he is home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever since the ep 'Rules of Order' I have always headcanoned Brice as being an FFA (Future Farmers of America) Alum.
> 
> I was in FFA myself all through high school, and it's really a great organization. All meetings were run by Robert's Rules of Order, and there's even a competition called Parliamentary Procedure where teams enact a short meeting and have to use specified elements of the parli pro/Robert's Rules in certain time period. It's pretty interesting, honestly. 
> 
> Title from the FFA Creed.


	2. Welcome to Los Angeles

It feels good to finally be out of the hotel, even if he’s only been there for a few days. Brice had gotten a lead on this apartment after a couple days, and he’s grateful that he’s been able to move in quickly. _This all still feels like a dream sometimes._ He still worries he’ll wake up at any minute and be back in Florida in that house, back around all those awful people. Suppressing a shudder, he puts his truck in park and starts unloading the bed, grabbing the first box he can reach.

The apartment is a small one-bedroom, but it feels just right. Brice doesn’t need a whole lot of room with just himself and his few belongings. He finally has a space that’s all his own. The first box gets deposited on the living room floor. A wave of relief and warmth courses through Brice’s veins. _This space is mine alone._ It feels good, very good indeed.

“That was quick.”

A young woman about his own age stands in the doorway of the apartment across the corridor, smiling up at him.

“Pardon?”

“This place got rented out quick. Last tenant only moved out a coupla weeks ago. It’s a nice place, though,” she says, “Nice people that live here.”

Brice doesn’t reply. He isn’t sure what to say. The woman doesn’t seem fazed, however, simply tucks some dark blonde hair behind her ear, tells him, “I’m Ivy, by the way. Ivy Bowens.

“Nice to meet you, Miss Bowens. My name is Brice.”

“First or last?”

“Last.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Brice. And just call me Ivy.”

“May I call you Bowens?”

“Yeah, don’t see why not. I’ve been called worse,” she shrugs, “Say, you want any help bringin’ everything up?”

“I don’t require any assistance.”

“Well, clearly ya don’t require it... but I asked if ya wanted help, not if ya needed it.”

_This is new._ Perhaps it’s because he’s from a small town where everyone knew him and nobody liked him enough to be friendly to him, but this girl’s friendliness is almost off-putting. His suspicion is only heightened because Bowens is considered attractive. _No one has ever been nice to me, especially when they’re considered pretty._

“What do you want out of it?” he asks.

“What do I-? Jesus, I just wanna help,” she replies, “Just seemed to me you were alone and could use a hand. I mean, if ya don’t want any help, that’s fine with me. My feelings won’t be hurt. I just wanted to offer, wanted to be neighborly.”

Brice regards her a moment before saying, “I suppose it would go somewhat faster with two people.”

“That’s the spirit, Brice. What can I grab?”

“Whatever you wish.”

The process is nicely expedited with an additional person, and soon Brice’s truck bed is empty and the apartment living room filled with boxes.

“Say, Brice, none of these are labeled for plates or kitchenware or anything like that,” Bowens comments.

“There were a few items that I neglected to pack,” he says, “I moved directly from my parents’ house, so I only brought what directly belongs to me.”

“Really? Oh, well, lemme take ya shopping. I know some places to get stuff that’s good but not too expensive. I mean, you’re gonna need plates and bowls and pans and silverware and cooking tools, plus sheets and pillows in the bedroom… maybe a nice lamp or two of your own… oh, and a tv. If you want, I have an extra pillow and sheet set ya can borrow ‘til the shopping’s done, and-“

“Bowens, why are you being so nice to me?”

“What?”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” he repeats.

“I’m just a nice person. You’re movin’ into a place all alone, so I figured you could use a pal, or at least a friendly face,” Bowens explains, “Got Florida plates on your truck, so you’re at least from somewhere near there, and I’m pretty sure you don’t know anyone here yet. Is it so weird that someone would wanna be friendly to you?”

“Yes.”

Something like pity flickers in Bowens’ eyes, and after a moment she says, “Well, get used to it, Brice, ‘cause I’m gonna be friendly to ya. And I don’t want a damn thing in return but friendship. Just… people aren’t made to be completely alone, ya dig? A person at least needs friends.”

For a long moment, Brice is silent. He just can’t think of anything to say. _No one has ever wanted to be my friend before._ It’s a new sensation to him, to be sure.

“I suppose… I suppose it would be illogical to turn down an offer of assistance… and one of friendship,” he says slowly.

“See, you’re gettin’ the hang of it. Lemme go get that stuff for ya, and I’ll be right back. Then I could help ya unpack if ya want.”

“That would be nice, Bowens.”

She gives him a smile and heads out, returning a short while later with a pillow and set of light grey sheets, telling him, “I brought another blanket, too. I dunno if ya get cold or like to sleep warm or what, so… yeah. I thought it would be nice.”

“Thank you, but the extra blanket isn’t necessary. I have a quilt.”

“Alright, perfect. Hey, I’ll make the bed if you want. That way you can keep unpacking and stuff.”

“That sounds fine to me. I put the quilt in there already,” he says.

Brice walks Bowens back to the bedroom, politely opening the door.

“Oh my-… Brice, this quilt is beautiful!”

She carefully spreads it over the bed, the intricate patterns in blue and gold laid out before them, her fingers reverently tracing a panel.

“Thank you. Someone made it for me several years ago as a gift.”

“Well, they did a great job,” Bowens says, “My mom used to have a buncha quilts like this all over the house. I still have some of my own. Here, lemme finish up…”

Brice simply lets her do as she pleases, completely unused to someone extending friendship toward him. The only people who had ever done so were Mr. Sweeting and his wife, the couple who owned the watermelon farm he’d worked at since he was sixteen. Other than them, people tended to merely tolerate him when they weren’t showing him outright derision. _And the girls were just as bad as the boys… maybe even worse._ Brice still has vivid memories of groups of girls giggling and pointing. One of them even set him up for an awful prank once. He never lived it down.

Watching Bowens work, he’s still somewhat astonished that someone like her is talking to him and being friendly. She has that typical California look he’d expected to see, that people see in magazines and in movies: suntanned skin that was pink in places, dark blonde hair with sun-bleached streaks, freckles dusting her nose and cheeks, golden-brown eyes. Not skinny but not necessarily what he would deem fat, she is what one would call attractive, and even if Brice isn’t interested in dating, he can at least tell when someone is good-looking. _This is very odd indeed._ He steps into the living room to unpack his belongings, carefully unwrapping the awards and photographs and seeking places for them in the new apartment.

She still helps, complimenting his photos and awards but never asking questions that are too probing, though she does ask him about the FFA, which sends him off on a tangent that lasts nearly twenty minutes. When Brice realizes how long he’s talked, he feels heat bloom in his cheeks.

“Oh, hey, don’t be embarrassed,” she tells him, still smiling, “It’s nice to know that I can get ya talkative on some things. That’s the most you’ve said all day.”

“I just- I don’t know, I just get excited about things I like, so when someone asks me about them, I… I go a bit overboard,” he responds.

“Don’t worry about it. Say, it’s gettin’ kinda late in the day. You hungry?”

“A bit.”

“Awesome. I’ll take us out for dinner. My treat. No arguments.”

“But I couldn’t-“

“I said no arguments, Brice,” she says, “Look, consider it a welcome gift.”

“I still don’t understand why you’re being so nice to me.”

“Because I want to. You just seemed like a nice fella, that’s all.”

“You hadn’t even spoken to me yet. How could you tell? How did you know I wasn’t a criminal or a-a sex maniac or something like that?”

“Oh, I’m just sure about things like that. I’m pretty good about pickin’ out the good ones.”

“That doesn’t seem very safe, Bowens,” he frowns.

“Maybe not, but I’m still here. C’mon, let’s go. You can tell me what you wanna eat along the way.”

“It would be best to defer to your judgment in this case, I think.”

Bowens goes to grab her purse and returns shortly, and together they go down to the parking lot. The orange Volkswagen Bug certainly stands out.

“So, why did ya come all the way to LA from Florida?” Bowens asks over dinner, starting in on her burrito.

“I came here for a job.”

“You’re not an actor, are you?”

“No.”

“A writer?”

“No,” Brice replies, “I came here to join the fire department.”

“The fire department? What, they don’t have firemen in Florida?”

“They do… but there’s a special program I wanted to join. There’s not one like it anywhere else in the nation, really.”

“What kind of program?” she asks.

“Paramedic. They’re training firemen to act as… well, almost in the capacity of a combat medic. A paramedic can provide more immediate intervention in the field, thereby increasing a trauma patient’s likelihood of survival.”

“Yeah, I remember hearing about it. I’m a dispatcher for the police department, and I think I heard the guys talkin’ about it. Should do a lotta good,” she says, taking another big bite.

Brice says nothing, simply continues to eat his own burrito. _Yes… Yes, it should do a lot of good, indeed._

xXxXx

Wandering into the bay, Bob takes the time to look over the new squad. It has been used a fair number of times, since it arrived only a few months ago, but it’s as shiny as that day, still looks brand new. _Still looks like a beauty._ He runs his fingers over the lettering on the door. It still feels very new… maybe because it is very new.

Bob has been in the department a long time, has been a lineman a long time, and he’s always loved the work. He’s done a good job over the years, saved a lot of people, comforted many victims, but there’s always been a little voice at the back of his head saying he could do more. Still, he did his best, all he could do, and tried to comfort himself that way. _But it always felt incomplete, like I was meant to be doin’ somethin’ else._ He just never knew exactly what else he was meant to do besides working as a fireman on a rescue team.

Then one day, just over a year ago, a doctor from Harbor General told him about a new paramedic program and asked if he’d like to join the first class of trainees. Bob agreed almost before the doctor finished asking. He excelled at the work, enjoying every minute of it, and by virtue of his last name, Bob Bellingham graduated first. He looks at his badge in the window, numbered 0001, and feels himself smile. _And to think I was gonna be an engineer. That woulda been a bad choice._ Bob prefers to be in the thick of the action, to go in where others dare not tread.

At around 10:30 that night, Bob and his partner Mark are called to a bar fight at a local trouble spot. Police are already on scene when they arrive. Inside, there’s a highly intoxicated man on the floor, bleeding profusely from a gash in his arm. Mark begins treatment, taking vitals, while Bob calls Rampart on the biophone.

“Rampart, this is Squad 16.”

“ _Squad 16, go ahead._ ”

“Rampart, we have a male patient, age approximately 45, with a laceration to the left arm. He’s lost around a unit of blood. Stand by for vitals… BP is 90/60, pulse is 125, respirations 20. Patient is visibly intoxicated at this time but is responsive.”

“ _16, put a pressure bandage on the laceration, give IV D5-W, and transport._ ”

“10-4, Rampart.”

The patient is at least cooperative, cheerfully unaware of his blood loss thanks to the haze of alcohol.

“Anyone else hurt?” Bob asks an officer as Mark takes the patient out to the ambulance.

“Umm… I think the bartender said a patron got injured tryin’ to break it up,” he replies, “A young guy he’d never seen before. Took a blow to the head, I think.”

Bob looks around and finally spots the young man sitting alone in a booth, a bloody towel pressed to his head. _He tried to break up a fight?_ He looks very young and kind of skinny, has a mop of mouse-brown hair, big glasses perched on his nose, head tipped back somewhat.

“Hey, kid,” Bob says, making his way over, “How ya doin’?”

The young man drops his head slightly to look at him, though he doesn’t appear too sure of Bob, so Bob just smiles at him gently.

“I have been better,” he responds.

"Yeah, I can imagine. Name's Bellingham. I'm a paramedic with the fire department. I'm gonna take a look at your head, okay?"

"You're a paramedic?"

There seems to be some recognition in his voice, like he knows what a paramedic is, so Bob tells him, "Member of the first class outta Harbor General... ooh, but I think you'll be goin' to Rampart tonight, kid. That's a nasty cut... Just gonna clean it out... Sorry, this is gonna sting a bit..."

The young man winces when the antiseptic hits the cut above his eyebrow.

"Like I said, sorry about that...” Bob tells him, examining the cut more closely, “Yeah, you're gettin' stitches tonight. C'mon, I'll bandage it up, and we'll get goin'."

"Is it very bad?"

He looks worried, pale eyes wide and nervous.

"Eh, I've seen worse. Now, you black out at all? Got any dizziness, nausea, blurred vision?"

Giving a quiet negative, the young man watches Bob intently, eyes following every move as if he were trying to learn. Bob wipes away some blood that’s trickled out, covers the cut with some gauze, and tapes it into place. He’s sure to be gentle, wants to be gentle as possible with this strange boy no one knows. The ambulance has come and gone, taking Mark and their first patient to Rampart.

"Alright if I take ya in the squad? Still feelin' okay?"

"I feel fine except for this cut, Mr. Bellingham. Riding in the squad should be fine."

_Definitely a ‘lil strange… sounds kinda like a robot sometimes._

"Good, 'cause all the ambulances left. Could call another one, but why wait if ya don't need one, huh? I'll call everything in once we're in the squad. Won't take long, kid,” Bob explains, “Oh and none'a that 'Mister' stuff. It's just Bellingham... or even just Bob, if ya want. Here, kid, have a seat while I call Rampart."

Bob holds the young man’s arm as he gets settled in before heading around to grab the radio, calling in, "Dispatch, this is Squad 16."

" _Squad 16, go ahead._ "

"Dispatch, could you patch me in to Rampart? My partner's bringin' them a patient in the ambulance and has the biophone."

" _10-4, Squad 16. One moment..._ "

" _Squad 16, this is Rampart, go ahead,_ " Nurse McCall says.

"Rampart, I have a male patient, early twenties, with a laceration to the forehead. Looks like he's gonna need some stitches. No reported dizziness, nausea, or unconsciousness. Requesting permission to transport in the squad."

" _Go ahead, Squad 16. See you soon._ "

Hanging up the radio, he looks over at the young man, smiling gently. He does not smile back. _S’pose I wouldn’t either with stitches on the horizon._ Without letting it get to him, Bob says, "Alright, we're good to go. Say, what's your name, kid?"

"Brice,” he answers, “Craig Brice."

"Pleased to meet ya, Craig Brice. So, you don't seem like the kinda fella who gets involved in bar fights. What happened?"

Craig takes a moment before he answers, as if hesitating, as if he doesn’t really want to talk, but he soon explains, "One pair of men took offense to something the other pair said and started a fight. I was trying to help break it up."

"What'd they hit ya with?"

"Only a fist, as far as I know."

"Well, they certainly did a number on ya. You from LA?" he asks.

There’s a barely there pause before Craig answers, "No. Florida."

"What brought ya here?"

"Just... I wanted to go somewhere else. I intend to join the county fire department, and I am very interested in the paramedic program, as well."

"Really?” Bob says excitedly, “Well, that's great to hear!"

"Yes. Perhaps you can give me your opinion of the program."

Without missing a beat, Bob tells him, "I love it. I've been a fireman for about fifteen years, and I think this is the greatest development we've had in a long time. Paramedics can provide immediate medical treatment to keep people alive until they reach the hospital. We've made some great strides in pre-hospital treatment, definitely help more people stay alive than when we only had ambulance drivers takin' care of 'em."

"The training seems fairly involved and intense while providing experiences for hands-on learning."

"That it does. Hey, we're here at Rampart. I'll walk ya in, c'mon..."

Bob sits with Craig and Dixie McCall, waiting for Dr. Brackett, until Mark comes and calls him away.

“Who was that kid?” Mark asks.

“Another patient from the bar,” Bob explains, “Got cracked in the head during the fight tryin’ to break it up. I dunno, seems like a nice kid. Wants to be a paramedic.”

“Already? I didn’t know anyone outside the department really knows what a paramedic is. Hell, there’s guys in the department don’t know what a paramedic is.”

“I dunno, he just said he wanted to join the department and be a paramedic,” Bob shrugs, “Musta read it in the paper or somethin’ like that.”

Craig just seems nice, if a bit odd, but Bob figures he’ll make a good firefighter/paramedic. _If he gets better at conversation, anyway._ What surprised him most was that while the kid looked skinny, there was a little bit of muscle to him. He’s just lean. _Looks kinda like a runner._ Bob sighs quietly and settles back into his seat, watching the LA nightscape flash by, trying to relax before the next call.

xXxXx

“Now, mind those stitches. Don’t get ‘em too wet,” the doctor explains, “It’s a small enough cut you could cover it with a bandage of some kind when you shower. Come back in about a week to get ‘em out, okay?”

“Yes, doctor. Thank you.”

Nurse McCall has him fill out some paperwork and gives him some information, leading him out to the waiting room.

“You need anything else, Craig?” she asks, “Cab fare? Change for the phone?”

“No, Nurse McCall, I should be fine. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Hey, I’ll keep an eye out for you in future paramedic classes. You should do well.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“I know so. Have a good night, Craig.”

Walking up to the payphone, he checks his wallet. _I do have enough money for a cab, but…_ He also has enough change for two phone calls. He dials the number on the slip of paper in his wallet.

“ _Hello, Ivy Bowens._ ”

“Bowens, it’s Brice.”

“ _Hey, Brice, what’s up? Where are you? I knocked on your door to see if you wanted to go out, but you weren’t home,_ ” she says.

“Well… I went out on my own, but I could use a ride home, if that’s alright.”

“ _Sure. I mean, ya don’t sound drunk, but yeah, whatever ya need, man. Where ya at?_ ”

“I’m, umm… I am at Rampart Gen-“

“ _Rampart? Why-? Why the hell are you at Rampart?_ ”

“It’s a rather long story, Bowens. I would prefer to explain it in person,” he tells her, “and I would be happy to compensate you for time and gas.”

“ _Whatever you want, Brice… I’ll be there in, like, fifteen minutes, ‘kay?_ ”

“That’s fine. Thank you, Bowens.”

Once he hangs up, Brice is shocked at how easy that was. _So that’s what it’s like to have friends._ It is interesting.


	3. Patience Is a Virtue (but Not One of Mine)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: some language, blood, injury
> 
> I will try to update this every two weeks, on Fridays :) 
> 
> Keep an eye out!

“Hey there, Brice, why ya lookin’ so bummed out?” Bowens asks.

Two weeks ago, Brice graduated the Fire Academy and started at a station. He’d done well at the Academy, scored top marks in every aspect despite his size. As such, he’s been sent to a good station, one that has a paramedic squad so he can watch and learn from them, but it seems he won’t be joining them for quite some time.

“They told me how long it will be before I can join the paramedic program,” he says glumly, “First, I have to finish my probationary period of one year.”

“Makes sense, though. Gets ya familiar with the job, with the department, all that.”

“Yes, but then I need to complete another year of service as a lineman before I can begin the paramedic training program.”

“You were hopin’ to come right in and join the program, huh?” Bowens says, smiling slightly.

Brice feels himself pout, tells her, “I suppose I did imagine the process being much shorter.”

“Then you’ve clearly never worked in a bureaucratic system before. Jesus, it took the police department almost six months to get new pencils in dispatch once. It’s just the way these big departments work. They’re not gonna spend money training someone they’re not sure will make it-“

“But I will make it!”

“Yes, I believe you, but the department can’t be sure. They have plenty of guys who go in and swear up and down they’re gonna hang tough and be in the department twenty years, and then they wash out in six months,” Bowens explains, “I know patience isn’t one of your many virtues, but try to have some for now. You’ll get there, Brice.”

He settles back onto the couch with a huff. _I have exhausted all my patience in waiting to come here._ Brice had wanted to leave home as soon as he graduated high school, but he had to wait in order to save money. He’d waited for money, waited for an opportunity to leave, waited for the training period at the Academy to begin. Brice is through with waiting. Once again, two years feels like an eternity.

“Hey man, quit bein’ a bummer,” Bowens says after a moment of Brice’s sulking, “Why don’t you tell me about some of the guys you work with? You’ve mentioned names but not much else.”

“I’ve only been there two weeks. I don’t know much about them.”

With a little huff, Bowens crosses her arms and leans back, put off at Brice not being able to feed her curiosity. Truthfully, Brice chooses not to know too much about his coworkers, doesn’t want the relationship to be too personal. He doesn’t share any of his own personal information with them. _I don’t even know that much about Bowens, and I’ve known her for over six months._ Thankfully, Bowens doesn’t push or pressure him for information about himself and doesn’t share too much about herself in turn. Sharing personal information just makes him uncomfortable for some reason. After a few moments of her own sulking, Bowens distracts him with another conversation.

“Hey, Brice!” the engineer at 14s greets him the next day, “How was your day off?”

“Relaxing. Yours?”

“Just hung out with my family. Took my kids to the zoo. They love it there.”

“I’ve never been to the zoo here, Crawford,” Brice confesses.

“Really? You oughta go sometime, kid. I think you’d probably like it. My little girl loves it, especially. Every time we go, Maggie tells us how she’s gonna work in the zoo one day.”

“I have no doubt she will do so if she stays as dedicated as she is now.”

Half of Brice is uncomfortable and wants the interaction to end. The other half is somewhat honored Crawford wants to tell him about his family.

“She’s only six, but I hope she’ll stick with it. We try to encourage her as much as we can.”

“That’s half the battle. She’s lucky to have parents like you and your wife.”

“Thanks, kid,” Crawford smiles, “Oh, hey, come with me. Cap wanted me to go over some stuff with you when we had free time…”

Brice dutifully follows, listening as Crawford goes over some information about the district, teaching him the most common streets they run calls to and the major cross-streets. _I like Crawford._ He’s a good man, kind, polite, patient. Brice knows from listening that Crawford has been an engineer for nearly eight years now, and he loves to work with probationary firefighters. He’s certainly treated Brice with kindness, is always friendly to him, as is one of the paramedics, Da Silva. Everyone else mostly ignores him until they need him to do something, but at least he’s used to that. The kindness is sometimes more baffling to him.

“You alright, Brice?”

“Yes. I’m fine. Why?”

“Dunno, just looked like you were thinkin’ about somethin’ else. Is it anything I can help with?”

“No… I suppose they were simply… stray thoughts.”

“I understand. They happen to the best of us. Here, tell me some of the main streets…”

The shift is fairly quiet for the engine, just a few minor runs, so Brice keeps himself busy with dishes and cleaning and triple-checking equipment.

“Brice? You’re still up?”

Da Silva stands in the doorway to the dayroom, just in his t-shirt and bunkers, rubbing at his face. When Brice doesn’t reply, he says, “It’s after midnight, kid. Why aren’t you in bed?”

“I suppose I just got carried away with the cleaning. It’s always said a probationary fireman should be the last one into bed and the first out of bed.”

“Yeah, well… I’m tellin’ ya now. It’s time for bed. Ya shoulda turned in an hour ago.”

The concern baffles him as much as the kindness.

xXxXx

“What are ya readin’ today, Bob?” Mark asks, sitting near him at the table.

“Oh, just some paramedic stuff today. Wanna stay up to date, y’know?”

“Guess I do. Is it from Rampart?”

“Yep. Some new medical information.”

“About what?”

“Our primary duties when treating a stabbing or gunshot victim, patient care, paramedic safety, stuff like that,” Bob answers, “Some of it’s pretty self-explanatory, but some of it’s pretty good advice. Got you a copy, too… right here.”

Mark thanks him and takes it, retreating to the dorm, leaving Bob alone at the dining table. _Well, that’s that._ Bob sighs, turns the page, rereads the first sentence four times before he puts the packet down. Being a paramedic is his favorite thing in the world. He loves every minute of this job, love the people he meets, loves helping people… but it wouldn’t hurt to have a partner who was actually interesting and could hold a conversation. Mark is a good guy, competent and everything, but he’s about as interesting to talk to as a wall with drying paint. _That sounds bad, probably, but it’s true._ Mark comes in, says a few bland words, and that’s it.

With another sigh, Bob makes an attempt to read the packet once more but can’t make it through with all the thoughts circling his mind. He’s not a bad guy. Bob gets along with everyone save for a few exceptions, but having to work with someone so dull was beginning to grate on his nerves. He’s used to working on an engine with multiple guys, so if one was boring, the others could make up for it. Now that it’s just him and Mark, it’s not as easy to find someone interesting to talk to.

Bob tries to read the packet a third time, but the tones drop, calling them to a freeway pileup. _During afternoon rush hour… perfect._ They’re the second squad called, along with 51s and their engine, Engine 127, Engine 14, and Engine 8.

“Gonna be a lotta work to do,” Bob comments.

Mark simply gives and affirmative grunt. The only reason Bob doesn’t roll his eyes is because he’s driving. Maneuvering the squad up the shoulder, he pulls in near 51s. They have a new captain now, a lanky man named Hank Stanley who Bob worked with once when the man was an engineer. He’s a good guy, if a bit uptight occasionally.

“Bellingham! How ya doin’, pal?”

“Pretty good, Hank- uh, Cap.”

“Good, good. You two might as well get right into it. Gage and DeSoto are already workin’ their way through the cars, lookin’ for victims,” Stanley says.

Horns honk as people wait in traffic. Metal crunches as firemen force open vehicles. Radio chatter filters through the air as the stations communicate. Adrenaline floods Bob’s system, but he feels strangely calm. This is where he’s at his best, in the midst of the chaos and fear. Bob pulls on his turnout, and he and Mark grab their supplies and jump into the fray.

Johnny and Roy have already cut a fine path, checking out victims to figure out who was the most injured. Everyone they pass has already been checked out by the time they reach the other two paramedics near the epicenter of the accident. A two-door car is on its side against the median wall.

“Fellas, we need a hand over here!” Johnny calls.

Bob can see the young paramedic perched on the median, peering down through the driver’s window.

“Bellingham, get on your H/T and call for a team to come help me with this fella! Just- he’s wedged in here good and I can’t get him by myself!”

“Can I get some help over here!”

“Mark, you go help DeSoto while I give Gage a hand here,” Bob says, then grabs the H/T calling, “Engine 16, this is H/T 16.”

“ _H/T 16, go ahead._ ”

“I’m up near the epicenter of the accident with 51s, and we need an extraction team. We have a male victim trapped in a rollover. Car is on its passenger side against the dividing wall.”

“ _10-4, H/T 16. Engine 14 will be there as soon as possible._ ”

“John, 14s is on their way,” Bob tells him, “What can I do right now?”

“Just get everything ready, I reckon. I can see plenty of blood down there. Looks like he mighta been unrestrained since he slipped down that way.”

“And this windshield’s busted to hell. Can’t see inside too well.”

“I heard him moan a couple times earlier, but nothin’ for a coupla minutes now,” Johnny explains, “Thought I seen him move a ‘lil bit ago, too.”

 _We gotta get him out, but we can’t do anything by ourselves._ A team has to come stabilize the vehicle before they can get in for a rescue or else the car might tip over, further injuring the victim and likely injuring both of them in the process. Bob checks his watch. _Time’s passing._

“Here comes 14s now,” Johnny says.

The engine rolls up, the two linemen hopping off the back, but Bob doesn’t pay attention to any faces.

“Alright, fellas,” Johnny tells them, “I need this car stabilized so I can get in and check the victim. Hold ‘er steady for me… Perfect… Hey, Bob, come over here so I can talk to ya easier.”

Bob carefully climbs up onto the median and helps Johnny into the car, watching as he checks the man’s vitals.

“He’s still breathing! I need a C-collar and the asbestos blanket, and then we gotta bust this windshield and get him out!” Johnny shouts.

Looking up, Bob points at one of the linemen, orders, “Go to Squad 16 and get the C-collar and asbestos blanket! Go!”

The young man dashes off and returns faster than Bob expected. Bob drops in the C-collar first, giving Johnny time to adjust it, then gives him the blanket, saying, “Alright, kid, I’m comin’ around to open up the windshield now.”

He jumps down from the wall and goes around, the young lineman coming with him. A Halligan tool is passed to him.

“Ready, Gage?” Bob shouts.

“Yeah, go ‘head!”

The first hit puts a hole in the windshield big enough for Bob’s hand, allowing him to grab it and pull the glass away in a sheet.

“Kid, grab the spine board.”

Johnny throws off the blanket and maneuvers himself into position. Bob reaches in to help, ready to pull the man out. _Shit, he looks bad._ The victim is covered in blood, some of it already dried and brown, much of still a vivid red, most of it from his head. His left forearm sits at a very wrong angle. His skin is cool and clammy.

“John, he’s in shock.”

“Yeah, I noticed, c’mon… shit, I can’t- ah! There we go!”

Finally free of the car himself, Johnny helps Bob carry the victim over to the treatment area. The young lineman still follows.

xXxXx

“Go to Squad 16 and get the C-collar and asbestos blanket! Go!”

Brice doesn’t need to be told twice. From his spot by the rear of he car, he sprints to the squad, easily locates the correct items, and hurries back, passing them to the big paramedic. _He seems familiar. I should know him._ He would have to think about it later. He has something else to concentrate on just now.

“Alright, kid,” the paramedic shouts into the car, “I’m comin’ around to open up the windshield now!”

Brice follows him, grabbing the Halligan tool along the way and giving it to the paramedic. The big man kneels down.

“Ready, Gage?”

“Yeah, go ‘head!” is the muffled reply.

Turning his head away, the paramedic swings the tool hard, putting a significant hole in the laminated glass of the windshield. He quickly peels it away and tells Brice, “Kid, grab the spine board.”

Brice does as he’s told, trying to absorb as much information as possible. Even thought right now he should be learning firefighter basics, when an opportunity arises for learning about the paramedics, he isn’t going to ignore it. The two paramedics have the victim extracted by the time Brice returns.

“John, he’s in shock,” the big man says.

“Yeah, I noticed, c’mon…” Gage says, struggling to get out of the car, “shit, I can’t- ah! There we go!”

The victim is in poor shape. Blood soaks his shirt, pouring from a head wound. Beneath the blood, his skin looks pale, and Brice notices one of his arms is badly broken. He follows the paramedics, ready to assist them if needed.

“Here,” the big man says, “Bag him. You know how to do it?”

Brice answers in the affirmative, carefully pushing air into the victim’s lungs as the big paramedic picks up the biophone.

“Rampart, this is Squad 51.”

“ _Go ahead, 51._ ”

“Rampart, we have a male victim of a rollover, approximate age 40, with a bad head laceration and a probable radioulnar fracture. Victim has lost about… 2 units of blood. Stand by for vitals… pulse is 140, BP is 75/45, respirations rapid and shallow. Pupils are… unequal, one reactive.”

“ _51, splint the arm and start an IV D5-W and Ringer’s. Transport as soon as possible,_ ”

“10-4, Rampart.”

Gage quickly prepares the IV while the big man works on splinting the arm. Brice keeps bagging, carefully watching everything the two paramedics do. _I want to learn. I want to do that._ The big man cuts off the victim’s shirt, large hands delicately palpating the abdomen and chest. He swears.

“Rampart, 51.”

“ _Go ahead, 51._ ”

“Update on the rollover victim. Palpation of the chest and abdomen reveals possible broken ribs and rigidity in the abdomen. Suspect internal bleeding.”

“ _What’s the ETA on the ambulance, 51?_ ”

“Should only be a couple minutes now.”

“ _Keep checking his vitals. Just transport as soon the ambulance arrives._ ”

“10-4.”

“Hope we can keep ‘im alive a couple more minutes,” Gage says, “Can you see the ambulance, Bellingham?”

 _Of course. He’s the paramedic who treated me._ Brice feels a bit stupid for not remembering sooner.

“Nah, can’t see nothin’ ye- Wait… I see the lights comin’ now. Let’s prep him…”

Gage tells Brice to keep bagging while they prep the victim for transport, and once he’s ready to go, Gage looks up, asking, “Hey, what’s your name?”

“Brice.”

“Brice, go to that other car and ask Roy what’s goin’ on with his patient.”

xXxXx

 _Christ, I’m stupid._ Bob knew the kid looked familiar but couldn’t place him. He likes how he worked on this call, is doing a great job, does what he’s asked without question. He returns as the ambulance pulls up, saying, “DeSoto says their patient is awaiting an ambulance but is not critical, and he will be taking the patient in.”

“Alright… uh, when ya head back, ask Cap’n Stanley to send Chet for the squad.”

Brice gives an affirmative, helping Johnny load the patient.

“So, ya made it, kid.”

The young lineman turns and looks at him, pale eyes wide

“Yes, I did, Bellingham. I am not yet a paramedic, though.”

“Not yet you’re not… but you will be. Ya did a great job today, Brice. Really great job.”

He thinks he sees Brice’s cheeks go pink, but he can’t be sure. Brice gets called by one of his guys and scurries away, leaving Bob standing alone in the wreckage of a rescue.

“Bob!”

Mark comes walking over from his and Roy’s rescue.

“Well, I think that’s everyone rescued,” Bob tells him, “Reckon we can head out soon, unless someone else comes outta the woodwork.”

Mark just nods, and Bob bites back a sigh. _There needs to be a change somehow._ They wait for Kelly to arrive for Squad 51.

“Keepin’ an eye on the squad, fellas?” Kelly asks.

“Absolutely. How ya been, kid?”

“Just been livin’ the dream.”

“Haven’t we all? Hey… Chet, what’s on your lip there?” Bob teases, pointing.

Chet pushes his hand away with a smirk.

“I’m growin’ a moustache. Wanted a ‘lil change.”

“It’s changin’ something, kid. Anyway, get goin’ to Rampart. See ya around.”

“See ya, fellas.”

Squad 51 speeds away, and Bob begins to make his way back to 16s. The fire department’s job is winding down now, is now becoming the jurisdiction of CHP and tow trucks. Captains stand around conferring, seeing if there’s anything else that needs to be done. The rest of the guys all mingle around, waiting to be released. Bob makes his way over to where 16s is talking to guys from 14s and 51s. Brice is nowhere to be seen.

“Hey, Bob, how’s it goin’?” Lopez asks.

“Oh, doin’ great, just great…”

They have a fun conversation, talking about whatever comes up. Mark doesn’t join in, and as much as Bob hates to think it, he’s actually glad for it. It’s nice to just relax and have a conversation when they’re so rare with his partner, nice to talk with his friends. _Yeah, this is always nice._ Bob offers up a story from one of their frequent flyers, regaling the others with the patient’s story.

“ _Squad 16, are you available?_ ”

“Hell… uh, 10-4. Squad 16 available.”

“ _Squad 16, respond to the call, unknown type injury…_ ”

“Should be fun. See ya, fellas… oh, Crawford?”

“Yeah, Bob?”

“Your probie? Brice? He did a great job today. Already told him, but I wanted to let ya know.”

Crawford smiles warmly, says, “I’ll be sure to tell, Cap. Later.”

Bob hurries to the squad, tells his partner, “Alright, Mark. Duty calls.”

As usual, Mark says nothing, and this time, Bob can’t hold back the sigh.

 


	4. The Hard Lessons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: MAJOR trigger warning for the death of a child; mild language
> 
> Sorry for the late update, but at least it's technically still Friday!

“That Crawford fella seems really nice,” Bowens says.

She expertly pinches a piece of chicken with her chopsticks and pops it into her mouth. Brice isn’t quite as proficient with the chopsticks, but he’s doing alright.

“Oh, he is,” he replies, “I’m learning a great deal from him. I believe he wants me to follow in his footsteps and become an engineer, even though he knows my plans are otherwise.”

“Probably just wants someone to carry on his name, carry the torch, somethin’ like that.”

“I suppose. Crawford does have children of his own, however,” Brice tells her.

“Still, a fella wants to know he made an impact in his field. His kids might not go into that same line of work, so to have a protégé… just makes ya feel better,” she explains.

Brice just gives a little hum, carefully picks up some noodles, manages to get them all into his mouth. The two of them sit in silence for a few moments before he speaks up, “Crawford invited me to dine with his family.”

Looking up, Bowens has raised eyebrows, says, “Oh yeah? When?”

“Whenever I wish. I met his wife once when she brought some food over to the station, but I’ve never met the children. I just don’t want to intrude.”

“It’s not intrusion if you’re invited, Brice. How old are the kids?”

“Maggie is six. Michael is eight. Joseph is nine.”

“Ah, kids that age are easy. Find out what they like and let ‘em talk. Like some kids like dinosaurs, some like Ancient Egypt or trains or heavy equipment, stuff like that,” she tells him, picking up the rice.

“The youngest likes the zoo,” he says.

“See, there ya go. She likes animals. Easy.”

“Bowens, I just don’t know. It feels… I don’t know.”

He’s never really had friends. No one in Florida ever liked him except for the Sweetings, and aside from them, no one had ever invited him over for dinner or out for a drink or even to sit with them at lunch. This is unprecedented. _I felt the same way when Bowens invited me out the first time._ It’s like something short-circuits in his brain that makes him unable to comprehend it.

“Well, I guess if you’re uncomfortable, you don’t hafta do anything ya don’t wanna do… but it might be nice. Seems to me like the only people you hang out with are the ones you work with, except for me. I dunno, it might be nice to be closer to someone you work with.”

Brice just mumbles, “I suppose,” and returns to eating. He just doesn’t know what to do. The whole idea of having a close friend seems so nice, but it’s an idea so foreign he doesn’t have the slightest idea how to achieve it. _I suppose that’s sad._ Bowens is a bit of a special case. She was persistent, and she doesn’t have to work with him. _And I’ve always had one person who doesn’t hate me… like the Sweetings._ Part of him is also very afraid this is all an elaborate plot, like the ones in school where other kids would set him up for embarrassment. He’s been wary of offers of friendship ever since.

“Hey, Brice, I forgot to tell you,” Bowens says, “I’m gonna be away this weekend. Me and a friend of mine are gonna go up to ‘Frisco, see all the sights, relax a little, all that jazz.”

“That sounds enjoyable. I hope you and your friend have a good time.”

“I’m sure we will. Y’know, we oughta take a trip sometime,” she says, “You’re new to California, after all. You should explore while ya can.”

“I’m not sure that’s wise. People will get the wrong idea about our relationship.”

“Ah, who cares about that shit? It’ll be fun, Brice.”

He doesn’t have a response for that, and Bowens doesn’t push it. _I don’t want people to think we’re dating when we’re not. It would be awkward._ Bowens shows no interest in in him romantically (not that he’s any good at recognizing such things), has told him so several times, but he doesn’t want anyone thinking they’re intimate in some way. It just makes him uncomfortable.

Back at work over the weekend, Crawford comes to him while he’s cleaning, asking, “So, Brice, thought any more about my invite? Laurie’s been waitin’ for an answer.”

“I just-… I don’t know, Crawford, it’s-… I appreciate the offer very much, but- I don’t want to be a bother-“

“But I’ve invited you. You won’t be a bother. I want you there.”

“I know, just… No one has ever invited me to their house before. I don’t know what to do.”

That might be pity in Crawford’s eyes, and while Brice isn’t looking for pity, it secretly feels very nice. Heat creeps into his face as he waits for Crawford to speak.

“Well… Well, that’s gonna change, pal,” he tells Brice quietly, “Why don’t you come over tomorrow night? Like I said, Laurie’s real excited to have ya over, and I always think sooner’s better than later.”

“Yes, that sounds fine, Crawford.”

“Great. I’ll go call her now and let her know.”

 _It should be an interesting dinner for everyone._ He doesn’t really count Bowens in terms of being invited over for dinner. They’re neighbors, after all, and it was just in her apartment… and it was more of an ambush than an invitation. It’s not the same as being formally invited to meet someone’s family. With a sigh, Brice goes back to mopping the floor in the bay. _I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into._

xXxXx

Bob makes his way into Rampart, looking for his partner. At the emergency bay, he finds Dixie and Dr. Brackett having easy conversation.

“Hey there, Bob,” Dixie says, “Lookin’ for your partner?”

“Guess I am. I know he’s here somewhere. Brought in an asthma case.”

Brackett tells him, “They’re in Two, I think, with Dr. Early. Should be done soon.”

“Probably… I do feel bad for the kid, though. Said she’d already been intubated, like, five times, has a lotta problems with her asthma, stuff like that. She’s only fifteen.”

“Poor kid,” Dixie says, “It’s gotta be hard to be a kid when you’re worried about not bein’ able to breathe at any moment.”

“Hmm, hopefully she won’t have to be intubated again because-“

“ _Dr. Brackett, report to ICU. Dr. Brackett, ICU._ ”

He heads off, leaving Bob and Dixie at the bay.

“So, tell me, Bob, what’s got you all quiet and down?” she asks.

“Ah, it’s nothin’ really. Just- uh… it’s a ‘lil ridiculous.”

“I love ridiculous.”

“Just… I dunno… Mark’s just kinda gettin’ me down. I hate to say it, but he’s boring,” Bob explains, “He never wants to have a conversation or hang out or anything like that. Ask him how his day off was and ya get a grunt and a nod, maybe one word if you’re lucky. It’s just no fun, Dix. I need a change.”

“What kinda change? Like… not a career change, right?”

“Nah, not a career change. I love doin’ this job, but-… maybe I need to switch stations or partners. Just somethin’ to mix it up. Dix, I shouldn’t be bored in this job. I shouldn’t be unhappy to see my partner.”

“I guess that’s true enough. Maybe changing stations’ll be good for you. I mean, you’ve been with 16s for a while now, so maybe that’ll shake things up enough to get you excited again.”

He mumbles, “Yeah, maybe,” and leans against the desk. He’d had the same discussion with one of his sisters, Easter, the other day, and she’d said they exact same thing.

“Bobby, ya gotta do what’s gonna make ya happy. If you’re not happy where you’re at, then ya need to change that, or you’re gonna make yourself miserable. I think your best bet is a transfer. A whole new start,” she said, “I think that’s best.”

 _And she’s probably right._ Bob had finally thought he could stay long term at a station, make a station his home, but right now, that’s feeling impossible at 16s. Everybody’s friendly. They’re all great guys. He just doesn’t feel like he fits in at the moment. Even switching to a different shift might help. One of the other 16s paramedics has been wanting to switch shifts for a while now, and Bob likes the guy he would work with, Bart Winston.

“Ready?”

Mark has finally finished with the patient.

“Yep, ready to go.”

He gives a grunt of recognition. Bob looks to Dixie, who smirks. _She understands._ That makes his mind up for him. He’ll talk to Hofsteader tomorrow at shift change.

xXxXx

“ _Station 14, respond to a call for a missing child, 1131 Iverson Ave, cross-street Windmere…_ ”

Brice turns to his partner in the engine, asking, “Missing child?”

Dawes answers, “Sometimes the kids are just hangin’ out somewhere. The police make ‘em feel scared sometimes, and firefighters might seem a ‘lil more friendly. Plus, we’re extra hands to help look for the kid. Usually they’re just under their bed or under the porch or in the backyard somewhere.”

“And if they’re not?”

“Then they’re not, Brice. We’ll deal with it then.”

When Dawes says nothing else, Brice doesn’t push it. _It’s my probationary period. I’m here to learn._ There are several patrol cars on location when they arrive. Captain Eddy heads over to an obviously agitated woman flanked by two police officers, Crawford close behind. The engineer returns shortly.

“Kid’s been missing for almost five hours now,” he explains quietly, “Guess he said he was gonna go to a neighbor’s house, but none of the neighbors have seen him.”

“They’ve contacted all the neighbors?” Brice asks.

“Everyone except, uh… one house about a block over. They’re on vacation. Mother says the boy knows that, so he wouldn’t go there.”

Brice looks around. They’re all ranches in this area, and he can see back to the house Crawford spoke of. A high fence surrounds the backyard, so no one would be able to see over it into the yard.

“Have they checked that house at all?”

“Not that I know of, Brice. After all, why would the boy go a block over to a house he knew was empty?”

“I have a hunch. Da Silva, would you accompany me over there?” Brice asks.

He agrees, and the two of them go over to the empty house, where Da Silva gives him a boost to look over the fence.

“Da Silva! Push me over! He’s here!”

“Once you get over, you open this gate for me, Brice! Understand?”

“Yes, just hurry!”

Brice does as he’s told, then sprints to the in-ground pool, where a small body floats face down. He dives in, quickly retrieving the boy and pulling him from the pool with Da Silva’s help.

“Stop- kid, hey hey hey-“

“We have to start CPR immediately-“

“Brice, listen-“

“He could still have a chance-“

“Listen to me-“

“Please, I need to-“

Strong hands seize his wrists, forcing him to look up. Da Silva’s expression is sad and pitying but firm. He says, “Brice, look… He’s been dead for hours. There’s nothing we can do. If we start CPR now, we hafta keep it up ‘til we get to Rampart, and I don’t wanna hurt this boy’s mother any more by giving her false hope, understand?”

Brice blinks at him, water still dripping into his eyes. The words make sense, yes, but it takes him a long moment to comprehend them. _We have to save him._ He looks down. The small body is pale and mottled, the boy’s eyes wide and cloudy and blank. Da Silva is right. This boy cannot be saved. _There’s nothing we can do._ Brice casts his gaze back up to Da Silva’s face. As if seeking something, the brown eyes search him for a moment before slowly releasing his wrists and picking up the H/T.

“Engine 14, H/T 14.”

“ _H/T 14, go ahead._ ”

“Cap… we, uh, we found the boy. Send the police over to secure the scene.”

“ _10-4, H/T._ ”

“You didn’t tell them he’s dead.”

“That’s not somethin’ we announce over the radio, kid. That’s not how the boy’s mother should find out. The way I worded it… Cap knows. He’ll explain it real gentle.”

Brice cannot deny being a bit perplexed, but he says nothing. It’s a lot to take in, a lot to deal with, a lot to think about. He just falls back onto his bottom, sitting on the warm concrete, staring at the boy. A few hours ago, he was alive. This morning was like any other morning. _Now he’s dead._ A few minutes was all it took, and a whole family’s been changed forever. Brice wants something to change now. He wants it all to be a joke, a hazing, a dream, anything but this reality.

“Brice?”

He jumps at the touch on his shoulder. Crawford is there with the police, the boy’s mother not far behind. With a soft, “Here,” Crawford helps Brice to his feet and leads him away. Brice flinches hard when the mother cries out, clearly identifying the body as that of her little boy.

“How’d you know to check the empty house, Brice?” Crawford asks quietly.

“Something- umm… Something similar happened in a town near mine when I was young,” Brice explains shakily, “In that case, uh, the child went to play in the other yard and fell in the pool by accident. It was the same sort of situation. No one thought to check the empty house because no one thought he would go there.”

Brice hadn’t known that child personally, but that was his first brush with death. He can still remember all the news stories and lectures at school on safe behavior, though his parents gave no such lectures to him or his siblings.

“That was some smart thinkin’ there… and you found him, Brice. I know it’s not how ya wanted to find him or how any of us wanted to find him… but at least he’s not lost anymore.”

Tears suddenly burn in Brice’s eyes, and he looks away, blinking rapidly, trying to stop his lip from trembling. _I can’t cry here. I can’t._ A strong hand grips his shoulder, squeezes, reassures.

“Hey, let’s get ya back to the station, kid… get ya into some dry clothes,” Crawford says, and when Brice doesn’t respond, he whispers, “Listen… you’re gonna be alright. It’s a hard thing to deal with, always will be, but you’ll learn how to deal with it.”

“It never gets easier?”

“No, and it never should. The only thing that gets easier is the compartmentalizing. It gets easier to deal with it, but it’s not easier to deal with, if that makes any sense.”

Brice mumbles, “It does,” and falls silent. Cap returns, explains, “Poor woman… Remembered the boy said somethin’ about swimmin’ and thought he knew better than to go in a pool by himself. Guess the family there told him he had an open invite to come and swim whenever he wanted, and he decided he wanted to swim. Damn shame… not anybody’s fault, just a damn shame.”

Perhaps that’s what has Brice so affected. There’s no one to blame. Someone is usually at fault in a car accident or a shooting or a stabbing. There’s a reason behind fires or medical emergencies. This was not something that should have happened, but there wasn’t necessarily a way to prevent it. The mother made reasonable assumptions about where her son was headed. The boy made all the poor choices, but blaming an eight-year-old child for his own death feels wrong somehow. It feels wrong to blame anyone in this situation. He becomes aware that he’s shivering, murmurs, “I’m cold.”

Shortly after, the engine crew returns to the station, where Brice takes a quick shower to warm up, dries off, and changes into another uniform, though he’s stuck with wet boots for the time being. He doesn’t leave the locker room when he’s done. He can’t for some reason. _Maybe if I stay in here, it won’t be real._ He can procrastinate in here as long as possible, can use this room to hide from the truth as long as is needed.

“There you are.”

Da Silva comes in and sits beside him on the bench, having finally returned from another run. His expression is almost the same as earlier, part sadness and part pity.

“I just wanna tell you that ya did a good job today,” Da Silva tells him gently, “That was a hard thing that happened, and honestly, I think you handled it well for a probie. You jumped right in, did what had to be done, and didn’t lose your head- well… not as bad as you coulda. You did good, Brice.”

“If I did so well… why do I feel so horrible?”

“Because a horrible thing happened. We all feel horrible. We all feel bad for that kid and his mother and that community. Nothin’ is ever gonna be the same for them, and it’s never gonna be the same for us,” Da Silva explains, “You’re never gonna be the same, either.”

“True… Just-… I entered this career knowing I would see death and despair, but… but I guess I didn’t expect to not be able to do anything to help,” Brice says.

“That’s probably the hardest lesson we learn in this job, that we can’t help everyone. Sometimes it’s ‘cause people don’t wanna be helped, but sometimes they can’t be helped. Either we’re too late or it’s too dangerous or it’s just nothin’ we can help with. I think it’s better to learn it early.”

Brice just nods. He isn’t sure what to say. _Da Silva is right, of course._ Knowing exactly how it feels early in his career is probably best. That way he won’t be shocked later. _I’m lucky to have these men around me, who care, who want me to succeed._ He might not have been so fortunate at another station.

“Think you’re gonna be alright, Brice?” Da Silva asks.

“Yes… Yes, I should be fine. Thank you for your concern.”

“Not a problem, kid.”

He squeezes Brice’s shoulder and leaves the locker room. Similar sentiments come to him from Cap, from Dawes, from the other paramedic Princeton, and of course, from Crawford. Brice takes to cleaning to keep his mind off what happened, not only doing his own assigned duties but also everyone else’s. Finally, near midnight, when Brice is cleaning the dayroom for the third time, Crawford stops him, taking the cloth out of his hand, saying, “Brice, you need to stop. You need sleep.”

“I’ll come in and go to bed when I have finished cleaning. I just-“

“You’re done cleaning now. You’ve cleaned the whole station three times over. It’s time to rest now.”

“I want to finish cleaning first, Crawford, please-“

“No,” he says firmly, tossing the cloth onto the table, ”you need to go to bed. I understand that you’re probably afraid to go to sleep or worried you’ll have a nightmare or something like that, but that’s okay. We’ve all been there, Brice, every one of us. You just hafta try to rest… and tomorrow you’ll come with me to my house for the day, no arguments.”

“I couldn’t-“

“You can. I don’t want you alone tomorrow, and since you’re comin’ over for dinner, ya might as well be there most of the day. For now, just go in and go to sleep, c’mon…”

Crawford grips him by the shoulder and guides him into the dorm. Sitting down slowly, Brice is half-tempted to wait until everyone is asleep and then sneak out of the dorm to finish his cleaning, but it would feel like he was letting Crawford down somehow. He carefully lays down, tries to make no noises, pulls off his glasses and sets them on the table between his and Dawes’ bunk. His body immediately curls itself into a tight ball, and he half-buries his face into the blankets. _I just want to sleep quietly. Please… I just want to sleep quietly tonight._

xXxXx

“Well, Brice, it was lovely to have you over,” Mrs. Crawford tells him warmly, “I hope you’ll come and have dinner with us again soon. The kids love you, especially Maggie.”

“I enjoyed the day immensely, Mrs. Crawford, and I’m glad that the children enjoyed it, as well.”

“Wonderful. Well, you just pick the day and tell Morris, and we’ll be ready- oh, what is it, Maggie?”

“Wanted to say bye to Mr. Brice again,” she says, walking right up to him, “Do ya hafta go, Mr. Brice?”

“I do. It’s time for me to go home so I can go to bed.”

“When will ya come back?”

“Hopefully sometime soon,” he answers honestly.

“Do ya wanna come to the zoo with us sometime, Mr. Brice?”

Mrs. Crawford gives a quiet laugh, probably at Brice’s bewilderment. It takes him a moment before he finally says, “If- umm… If your parents agree to it, I don’t see why I couldn’t.”

Maggie’s face splits into a wide grin, and she turns to her mother, begging, “Mommy, Mommy, please please please could Mr. Brice come with us to the zoo next weekend? Please? Please, Mommy-“

“Of course, darling. He’s more than welcome to join us,” she smiles.

“I’ll let you know when we go,” Crawford tells Brice, “We’ll come pick ya up. The boys have a thing for Scouts, so it would just be the four of us. Here, lemme walk you out, kid, c’mon…”

The two of them walk into the garage, where Crawford stops him, asking, “You gonna be alright when ya get home, Craig?”

Something shifts in Brice’s chest at the use of his given name. _No one ever uses my given name._

“I should be fine, yes. I won’t be home alone long, and we’ll be at work tomorrow.”

“Okay… I just wanna make sure you’ll be good. Do you have a roommate or a friend you can talk to when things get bad?”

“My friend Bowens lives across the hall. I can talk to her.”

“Good, good… You’ll be alright, Craig. I know it.”

It’s then that Crawford does something unexpected. He reaches out and wraps his arms around Brice, pulling him in for a hug. For a moment, Brice doesn’t move, too surprised to react, but he does eventually hug him back. _It feels nice._ He’s startled to think he’s never been hugged before by someone outside his family or the Sweetings. He almost doesn’t want to let go.

“You take care of yourself, okay, kid?” Crawford says as he pulls back, smiling.

“I’ll do my best. See you tomorrow, Crawford.”

“See ya tomorrow, Brice.”


	5. Why Do You Have to Say Goodbye?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Sorry I forgot to post this yesterday! I had a long day at work, and then my Dude called me that evening so my brain pushed everything else out. Thanks to Nancy for reminding me :)

Bob sighs, scrubs at his face, says, “Look, I just don’t understand what’s taking so long. I just wanna transfer to another station or another shift, and Hofsteader-“

“Things have changed. You know C-shift got a new captain, and Hofsteader’s happy now on that shift. Not to mention we just had a couple paramedic classes graduate, so we’re really not filling any new positions at the moment, not in the paramedics, so unless you have a major problem with your partner or your shift, there’s not much I can do for you, Bob.”

With another sigh, Bob says, “No, no, I understand, Jack. I appreciate ya hearin’ me out,” and rubs at the back of his neck. He’s never liked to rely on connections, but he was really hoping Chief Saunders would be able to help him out. They’ve known each other since the Academy, have remained good friends, and for once, Bob wishes he were a string-puller. _Neither of us ever was, but a fella can hope._

“Listen, Bob, I’ll do what I can for you. As soon as there’s an opening that sounds like it’ll be a good fit, I’ll try to get you there, but no promises, okay?”

“I understand. Like I said, I appreciate it. Thanks, Jack. I’ll see ya later, man.”

“Oh, Bob? Remember… you could always move up to engineer.”

“I could… but I probably won’t.”

Outside, Bob sits in his car for a bit and thinks everything over. He’s been in the department a pretty long time, and he’s not a particularly young man. Most thirty-three year olds have moved up the ladder by now, most fifteen-year vets at least at the position of engineer, but Bob has never felt any real drive to climb that ladder. He liked being a lineman in the thick of everything, and now he likes being a paramedic helping people. It’s been suggested he make the jump to engineer many times, but he’s always turned the department down. One time, he even told his captain he would purposefully fail the engineer’s exam if forced to take it. Bob has nothing against engineers, but it’s not the job he wants. _I’m doin’ a helluva lot of sighin’ today._ Another moment, and he puts his car and gear and heads to his sister’s.

“Well, aren’t you lookin’ pensive,” Easter says, “Wanna tell me about it?”

The yard is full of people, all gathered for a summer party. Children and teenagers play and laugh all over the backyard. Most of the adults are outside, as well, only his sisters Easter, Gladys, and Rebecca inside the house. Between his five siblings, there are eighteen children, and he wants to cheer himself up before he has to talk about it all.

“Not now, Terrie… maybe later, okay?”

“Okay… then ya better get outside. All those kids are waitin’ for their Uncle Bobby.”

He’s immediately swarmed by the younger children, and soon he’s got an audience of about fifteen, all listening raptly to his best rescues. They’re a great crowd, always reacting perfectly, gasping or cheering or booing or laughing in all the right spots. _This is my favorite._ He loves being around the kids, loves talking with them, loves spoiling them. With no wife and kids of his own, Bob can devote a fair amount of money to his nieces and nephews for school or sports or whatever they enjoyed. He helps provide for them, as much as he can.

“So, Bobby,” his brother Loren asks later, all the siblings crowded around the deck, “When are you gonna bring over a nice ‘lil lady, huh?”

“Well, if I ever find one, maybe I will,” Bob replies simply, sipping his beer.

“Hell, ya can bring home a nice fella for all we care,” Rebecca tells him, “We just want ya to be happy, is all.”

“Good, because I’m perfectly happy just the way things are, Becky.”

The conversation is dropped after that, turning to the kids and their activities, for which Bob is immensely grateful. Later, when the rest of the family has left, Bob remains, helping Easter clean up and put things away. Easter is exactly ten years older than Bob, their birthdays falling on the same day, though she was born on Easter Sunday and he about ten days before. The shared birthday made them close, much closer than either is with any of their other siblings. Easter and Bob know all the other’s secrets, their quirks, everything.

“Talk to me, Bobby.”

“Ah, it’s just a lot goin’ on at work, and them all kinda gangin’ up on me…”

“You haven’t gotten your transfer yet?” she asks.

“I mean, a transfer just doesn’t take a couple days. I gotta wait for an opening in the paramedics, and there isn’t one yet,” Bob explains, “It’s just draining workin’ with Mark every day. He’s just-… He’s so difficult to be with right now. I can’t talk to him about anything.”

“And I know that matters to you a lot, especially living alone.”

“Yeah, and then Loren had to bring that up, and I just- ugh…”

Bob drops into a chair, putting his face in his hands. There are the sounds of a chair moving, and a gentle hand rests on his shoulder. Easter says quietly, “They just don’t understand, Bobby. You can’t let it get to-“

“But it does get to me,” he replies, picking up his head, “It really does, Terrie. Just- It bothers me that they keep sayin’ they want me to be happy, but what they want for me isn’t what makes me happy. I don’t- I don’t want a-a spouse and kids and a mortgage and all that shit. It’s not for me.”

“I know that. I know it’s not what you want. Personally, I think they think you’re just avoiding relationships because of your profession, because it’s so dangerous.”

“C’mon, Terrie, you all know I been like this forever. I never even wanted to date or do any of that stuff in high school. I really am happy alone- well, without a relationship.”

“That’s why having a close partner is so important to you, right?” Easter asks.

Bob nods, says, “Yeah… Yeah, it is. It’s-… I need someone to-to talk to.”

“And I’m not enough.”

“No, sis, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know. What I meant is that there’s things you can’t talk to me about,” she explains gently, “You can try and tell me… but I’m not a fireman or a paramedic, and so there are things I just can’t understand. Having a close friend who knows what you’re going through will help you. That I do know. Just like Frank with his Marine Corps buddies. They know what each other went through in Korea, and so they know how to help each other. I imagine it’ll be the same with firemen.”

Mumbling an affirmative, Bob doesn’t otherwise respond. He hates to realize it, but in terms of friends, he’s gone for quantity over quality in recent years. There are a few close friends, like Jack Saunders, but they have families of their own and can’t just drop everything if someone needs help. That doesn’t really bother him, though. He understands family comes first. Sometimes, however, he really wishes he had a person that could devote a significant amount of time to him. _Maybe that’s a relationship, I dunno._

“Bobby, listen… look at me,” Easter says, taking his hand, “You’re gonna find a person like that. You’re gonna find a friend you’ll keep so close you just- you won’t even know what to do. He’s gonna be great. You’re gonna love him more than you’ve ever loved anyone, and that’s all you need.”

“But, Terrie, I’m not-“

“Not gay? That may be, but I don’t really think you’re straight, either… and everything I mentioned doesn’t hafta come with romance. Love comes in many forms, baby brother. Remember that.”

He leaves shortly after, unsure of whether or not he has a bad taste in his mouth from the rest of his siblings. Being that close to one person is almost unthinkable, half-dream and half-dread. He can remember when his parents died, his mother first and his father three weeks later sheerly from a broken heart. They’d been married over fifty years when his mother died. _And Dad’s health was just fine until Mom died. Once she was gone, he tanked. That’s where attachment gets ya._ He’s never been one for deeper attachments, knowing what loss can do to a person.

 _But it would be nice._ Bob doesn’t know where that stray thought came from, but it makes a fair point. Having someone he was close to would be very nice, very nice indeed, someone he cared about and worried about, even loved. Right now, it just doesn’t seem realistic. Easter said someone would come along. Bob wonders if perhaps they haven’t yet due to some failing on his part. The thought makes his heart give an uncomfortable flop.

xXxXx

The last few months have been amazing for Brice. He fits in well at 14s. He and Bowens get along well and have fun going to dinner. The Crawford family has invited him in, invited him to be part of it, to spend time with the children. _I have friends._ It’s all so unreal. He’s having an amazing time of it, especially with little Maggie.

Maggie is the smartest child Brice has ever known. She loves to read and go to the zoo or the aquarium and visit museums, but most of all, she loves Brice. If he doesn’t stop over at least two or three times a week, she has a fit. _I really feel like part of the family._ It’s novel.

It’s also very novel when Crawford doesn’t come to work one day. No one else seems concerned, and his sub is a nice man called Robert Starrett. He’s loud and robust and somewhat overbearing, but he’s very kind and Brice does like him. No one says anything about Crawford, though, and after only a few hours, Brice’s curiosity gets the better of him.

“Dawes,” he asks quietly, “do you know why Crawford isn’t at work today? Is he unwell?”

“Gee, Brice, I dunno really… guess he could be sick… mighta just took the day off.”

While Dawes’ answer is technically satisfactory, something in his body language is off, like he isn’t sure about what he’s saying… like he’s lying. Something twists slightly in his chest. Brice has never liked being lied to, but he doesn’t dare call Dawes out on the possible lie. _You can’t call a fireman a liar, not if you can’t back it up… especially if you’re still on probation._ That’s not the sort of reputation Brice wants to make for himself. So he waits, though it feels like suffering. He hates not knowing almost as much as being lied to.

And he hates being tiptoed around, too. The other men act normally, but Brice can’t help but notice they police their language in front of him, careful not to talk about Crawford’s absence when he’s in earshot. _That’s very suspicious._ Brice tries to act normally, as well, as normal as he can be, worried though he is. He makes up his mind to call Crawford in the morning to make sure he’s well, that they don’t need anything. He wants to be a good friend. He’s never had the chance before.

There’s no answer when he calls in the morning. _This is worrisome._ Brice tries to think it through logically. The most likely scenario is that the Crawfords went on a short vacation and simply neglected to tell him, though that didn’t explain why he was being tiptoed around. If anyone was injured or ill, they likely would have called to inform him by now. Curiosity is getting the better of him, but there’s nothing he can do at the moment. He calls up Bowens instead and takes her to lunch.

“I don’t think ya need to worry too much, Brice,” she tells him, “Sometimes things just slip people’s minds, like they might think they told ya something but they didn’t. Happened to me plenty of times.”

“I just hope everyone is well… that no one is in the hospital.”

“No one at the station told ya what’s goin’ on?” she asks.

“They seemed to know, but no one would tell me. They were stepping on proverbial eggshells all shift.”

“Huh… yeah, that’s a ‘lil weird. Didn’t push it with ‘em?”

“I thought it best not to,” he replies.

Bowens just nods slightly, popping another fry into her mouth. _She understands._ It concerns Brice that she thinks the situation odd. Brice makes another call to Crawford when he gets home.

“ _Hello, Crawford residence. This is Laurel._ ”

“Mrs. Crawford, it’s Brice.”

“ _Oh, Brice! How nice to hear from you! What do you need, sweetie?_ ”

“I just wanted to see how everyone is. Crawford wasn’t at our last shift.”

“ _Morris is just fine. We just went on a little vacation for a couple days. I told Morris to call you, but it musta slipped his mind. He’s like that sometimes… Oh I do appreciate you checkin’ in on us, Craig. Is there anything else I can- just a moment… Crai-Craig? Still there? Morris wants to talk to you._ ”

A series of muffled sounds issues from the phone, and Crawford comes on the line, asking, “ _Brice? Still there?_ ”

“Yes, I’m still here.”

“ _Good, good… say what are ya up to the rest of the day?_ ”

“I haven’t made any plans.”

“ _Why don’t you come over in about an hour? There’s- umm… I’d like to talk to ya about something._ ”

Brice’s heart drops. He quickly says, “Crawford, if I’ve done something wrong-“

“ _No no no… Brice, you’ve done nothing wrong, and it’s nothing bad. Just… I wanna talk to ya, kid._ ”

His pulse still pounds, but Brice tries to remain calm as he replies, “That’s fine. I- umm… I look forward to it.”

“ _Right. See ya soon._ ”

“Absolutely. I will see you in one hour.”

And he does arrive in precisely one hour. Mrs. Crawford greets him warmly and ushers him into the garage, where Crawford is waiting for him.

“Hey, kid… right on time, as usual-”

“What did you want to speak with me about?”

“And straight to the point,” Crawford says, sighs, continues, “I’m just not really sure how to go about this… didn’t think it’d be this rough…”

Panic rises up in Brice’s chest, and he blurts out, “Look, if I’ve done something wrong or-or inappropriate in any way, I’d prefer you to be forthright-“

“No, it’s nothin’ like that. Like I said, Brice, you haven’ done anything wrong. If anything, you’re doin’ everything just right. You’re doin’ a great job. You’re gonna be a good fireman, and one day soon, you’re gonna be a great paramedic. That’s the best thing about this job. We get to move and grow more than we ever thought we could,” Crawford explains quietly, “Few years ago, I never thought I’d be any good at teachin’ probies the ropes. Seemed like I was barely done bein’ a probie myself. Now… now, I’ve got a legacy… a group of guys who’ll always remember what I taught ‘em… and you’re probably the best outta all of ‘em, Craig.”

In a shaky voice, one full of realization trying to be repressed, Brice repeats, “I’d prefer you to be forthright.”

Crawford leans against a workbench, sighs again, says nothing for a long moment. Finally, he tells Brice, “I-… We’re movin’ next month, Brice.”

That feels like a punch to the gut.

“Wha-… What?”

“We’re gonna be movin’ to Sacramento next month. I got an offer to teach at their Fire Academy, and I took it. Position comes with good money and a promotion… It was too good to pass up. We were lookin’ at houses yesterday.”

Everything feels cold suddenly, even in the middle of July. _It’s happening again._

“Brice?”

His throat feels too tight, so tight he can’t even speak. _This can’t be real. It can’t be happening._ Brice can feel his body shaking.

“You’re leaving because of me.”

“Wha- Brice, no-“

“Yes. You lied to me. I-I did something and now you’re sick of me an-and you want to leave… just like everyone else.”

The pity in Crawford’s eyes only fuels his anger, and he continues, “You-… I have done something… something to make you hate me. Just- I wish you’d be honest with me.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply. He just leaves, ignores Crawford’s calls, and drives home, fighting tears the whole way.

xXxXx

The speed of the footsteps coming up the stairwell is a bit fast, but Ivy pokes her head out the door anyway.

“There ya are, Brice! I was- hey, what’s wrong? Brice?”

He goes right into his apartment and slams the door, completely ignoring Ivy. _Rude… and kinda weird._ Brice always at least tells her hello when he passes. Knocking on his door, she calls, “Brice? Brice, can you hear me? C’mon, dude, open the door… Brice!”

No response.

“Brice, if you don’t answer me, I’m gonna get my key and come in!”

No response.

Ivy mumbles, “Shit,” and hurries to carry out her threat. _God forbid that idiot does somethin’ real stupid…_ The door opens easily, and she steps in, closing it behind her.

“Brice? Where are you?”

 _And of course, he doesn’t answer._ She pokes around the living room, checks the bathroom and closets, finally comes to the bedroom. It’s locked. Biting back a groan, she knocks on the door, calling, “Brice, come open the door. I just wanna make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine!”

“You don’t sound fine. C’mon, just lemme see ya. Open up.”

A moment passes before she hears movement within, and the lock clicks, which wasn’t quite what she was looking for, but it was better than nothing. Ivy pushes open the door. Brice is sitting on the edge of his bed, his whole body shaking finely, face flushed. When she gets closer, she sees his eyes are wet as he tries to hold back his tears.

“Hey, man, what’s wrong?” she asks, sitting beside him, “Ya look awful.”

“It’s Crawford.”

“What about him? He’s okay, isn’t he? He’s not hurt or-“

“He’s leaving me.”

That throws Ivy for a loop. She’d pegged Brice as queer almost the moment she saw him, but she’d never expected he and the Crawfords has that kind of arrangement. _Queer can recognize queer, after all, but we’re not all-knowing._

“Well, umm… well, I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t realize y’all had that kinda relationship. I mean, I’m not bothered by it. Different strokes for different folks, as they say… for some people, that means polyamory and-“

“What?”

“What? Am I-? Did I understand that wrong?”

“Yes, you did. I am not in a polyamorous relationship with the Crawfords,” he says.

“Oh… well, that’s on me, then. I just- You said he was leavin’ you and-“

“I mean, he’s leaving… leaving 14s, leaving the department, leaving Los Angeles,” he tells her, voice thickening, “They’re all moving to Sacramento because he got a job in their Fire Academy teaching an-… and I just can’t believe he’s leaving, Bowens.”

“People leave sometimes. That’s just the way life is. Some people stay and some leave.”

“Not in my experience. People leave because of me… because I’ve done something to-to annoy them or to make them hate me somehow… that’s always how it happens.”

A pang of sadness cuts through her chest, but she tries to hide it, saying, “Brice, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. I’m sure Crawford doesn’t hate you. If he hated you, he wouldn’t’ve brought you into his family, and he wouldn’t’ve told you ahead of time he’s leaving. You can trust me on that. When someone hates you, they just leave. No muss, no fuss. Just gone.”

“I just don’t understand why he didn’t tell me earlier.”

“Yeah… I imagine it feels like quite a slap in the face.”

“Felt like a punch to the stomach,” he mumbles.

“Same idea. Should he have told you sooner? Probably, but I imagine he’s had a lot on his mind lately, between changin’ jobs and lookin’ for a house and preppin’ three kids for a move. That’s a lot to juggle,” she explains.

“I’m still upset. It’s not-… It doesn’t feel fair. Why did he become so close with me if he was planning to leave so soon?”

He just sounds so pitiful. _I knew the kid was lonely, but I never thought he’d been just straight-up abandoned before… and certainly not enough to give him a complex._ That’s what doesn’t seem fair to Ivy.

“Look,” she says quietly, “I don’t think for one moment it was his intention to do that. These things just crop up outta the blue most of the time. He probably only got the offer a couple months ago, and then there’s interviews, ya gotta make sure it’s profitable enough to support the family, there’s- uh, there’s- ya gotta make sure it’s the kinda job you wanna do, stuff like that.”

Brice looks up for a moment, perhaps with some understanding, and repeats, “I’m still upset.”

“You’re allowed to be upset. Nothin’ wrong with bein’ upset.”

Too often, she’s seen the police officers repress their way to a breakdown, believing themselves to be too manly to get upset, too macho to show emotion, too afraid of being called ‘gay’ to reach out to one another for help. Ivy knows the fire department isn’t much better, but she’s heard they’re more willing to help each other and treat one another like family. _Men are so ridiculous._ Even now, she can see that Brice is fighting to control his emotions. The phone rings.

“I’ll get it,” Ivy tells Brice.

“No, don’t- It’s probably Crawford calling-“

“-calling because he’s worried sick ‘cause you stormed out. I’ll get it.”

She goes into the living room and picks up saying, “Hello, Craig Brice’s apartment.”

“ _Oh, hello. Is this- Are you Bowens?_ ” a man’s voice asks.

“Yes, I am.”

“ _Okay, this is Morris Crawford. Is Brice there?_ ”

“He sure is… not sure he wants to talk just now, though. He’s pretty upset.”

“ _I could tell. Jesus- I feel awful, Miss Bowens,_ ” Crawford explains, “ _I-I didn’t mean to upset him like that. I dunno… I guess I just got caught up in everything and never got around to telling him before today. I do feel horrible about it._ ”

“He said the other guys wouldn’t tell him anything, either, just danced around the subject.”

“ _Guess that’s my fault, too. I asked ‘em not to say anything to him… Listen, can you ask him if he’ll talk to me? I hate to make ya a go-between, but…_ ”

“No, I dig it… Just a moment…”

Setting the phone down, Ivy goes back to the bedroom, telling Brice, “That’s Crawford. He’d like to talk to you, and he feels very bad for upsetting you.”

Brice looks away, wets his lips, ducks his head. _Don’t be so stubborn, man._ After a moment, he pushes himself up, says, “Alright… I’ll talk to him,” and heads into the living room. Ivy leans on the door, just watching.

xXxXx

“Crawford? You said you wanted to speak with me?”

“ _Yeah… yeah, you had me real worried, kid, runnin’ out like that. Look-… I-I’m sorry,_ ” Crawford tells him, “ _I didn’t think it would bother you so much that I was leaving. I know it wasn’t right to keep you outta the loop for so long, and I am sorry about that._ ”

“You must have suspected it would upset me if you decided to keep me out of the loop for so long.”

Brice could almost hear the flinch on the other end of the line, and it makes him feel strangely happy. _Good. He’s starting to understand._ A long moment passes before Crawford speaks again.

“ _Listen, this- I’d rather do all this in person, Brice… and we all wanna see you before we leave… especially Maggie._ ”

Brice bites back a sigh. He knew it would only be a matter of time before that was brought up.

“When… When would you like to talk, Crawford?” he asks.

“ _Sometime today still. I just want it resolved as soon as possible, before our shift tomorrow. I can come to you, especially since you already came here once._ ”

“Yes, that should be fine. When do you think you’ll arrive?”

“ _As soon as possible. Within the next half-hour, most likely. That okay?_ ”

“That’s fine.”

“ _Perfect. I’ll leave for your place as soon as we’re off the phone,_ ” Crawford says, “ _See ya soon._ ”

True to his word, Crawford arrives twenty-seven minutes later. Brice had already ushered Bowens out shortly after hanging up the phone, much to her displeasure, though she promised to return when Crawford leaves. _That will probably be helpful._ The knock on the door is timid, moreso than Brice would expect from a man Crawford’s size.

“Hi, Brice,” he says when the door opens.

Brice greets him in turn and invites him in, directing him to the couch. It’s almost surreal to have Crawford in his apartment. It feels strange in its level of intimacy, as Brice has never been so close to anyone before. _I wouldn’t even say I’m this close with Bowens… not when Crawford has invited me to be part of his family._ He watches Crawford’s dark eyes rove the living room, taking in information on this place he’s never seen and probably never will again. The thought sets a lump in Brice’s throat.

After a long and pregnant pause, Crawford clears his throat and says, “Craig, I really am sorry for keepin’ ya outta the loop with what’s goin’ on. Maybe I was tryin’ to-to protect you in some way… but that wasn’t really fair to you. I guess- I dunno… I guess I felt bad for you, wanted, uh, wanted to kinda take care of you, make you feel wanted. Seemed like no one had ever done that before.”

A small noise escapes past the lump in Brice’s throat, his eyes burning with tears, and he ducks his head. _Dammit…_ He doesn’t want to cry, not now.

“We move in three weeks,” Crawford continues, resting a hand on Brice’s shoulder, “Me and Laurie would love it if you stopped in before we leave. I know Maggie would love it-“

“Why do you have to go?” Brice chokes out.

“It’s just time for me to move on. I have to think of my family and what’s best for them. This job is more money, is a ‘lil safer, has better hours… I’ll be able to send all my kids to college, so Maggie can work at the zoo like she wants. They’ll be able to have a whole different life than I did.”

Brice can’t reply. He simply nods instead, not looking up. The hand on his shoulder squeezes a little tighter, and he leans into the contact, suddenly desperate for it.

“Hey, listen, kid… I just… I don’t want you to think I’m abandoning you,” Crawford says in a low voice, “That is not my intention, not by a long shot, and I can never apologize enough for making you feel that way. But… But I think it’s another important lesson for you to learn in this job. Sometimes people leave, and usually it’s unexpected… and involuntary. There are gonna be plenty of guys you’re gonna get close with. They’ll be like your brothers, and you’ll feel invincible, all of you, and inseparable… and then someone’ll leave. They’ll transfer or quit the department or get hurt… or die. It’s just part of the job.”

“I know that,” Brice sniffs, “I knew that when I joined.”

“I’m sure ya do… Christ, you’re smart. You’re probably the smartest guy I ever worked with, and I feel downright privileged I was able to teach you somethin’. You’re gonna make the department proud… gonna make me real proud.”

There’s that little choked noise again.

“Guess no one’s ever told you that, either.” Crawford whispers, “Lemme say it again… I am proud of you, Craig. You’re gonna go so far in this department, gonna do great things, gonna help a lotta people. That’s a pretty great legacy, hundreds of lives saved… and you’re gonna do it. You’re gonna make us all so damn proud.”

Brice can’t hold back any longer, not when he realizes he’s been crying silently for almost a minute, and he chokes out, “Please, I don’t want you to leave,” before breaking down. _Everyone leaves me._ It’s been a long time since he cried like this, cried so hard his body shakes and his breath wheezes. He doesn’t remember the last time someone held him as he cried. Crawford holds him now, pulls him into a tight hug, one hand carefully cradling the back of his head. Brice presses his face into the muscular shoulder.

“You’re okay, kid,” Crawford whispers, “You’re gonna be alright…”

Gently shushing him, Crawford continues his soothing ministrations, rubbing Brice’s back and stroking his hair. He gives Brice the time to rein in his emotions once more but doesn’t let go.

“Try to keep in touch, Craig. You’re part of our family now, and we’re gonna be thinkin’ of you all the time,” he tells him, “Please keep in touch with us.”

“I will try to, Morris,” Brice replies thickly, allowing himself using the luxury of using his friend’s given name.

He feels Crawford’s fingers twitch, his hold tightening slightly. For the first time in a long time, Brice allows himself to relax into the comfort of another. For the first time in a long time, he feels an odd sense of peace.


	6. I Just Need a Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: language, mentioned blood and injuries
> 
> Nice long chapter for you all here :)

Brice has been a fireman for one year. As of today, he is no longer a probationary fireman, and it does feel pretty good. His shiftmates actually throw him a small party, with a card and cupcakes and plenty of well-wishes, which is what feels the best. He’s pleasantly surprised by the little celebration, as ever since Crawford left a few months ago it’s felt like the only person who is particularly friendly with him has been Da Silva. _He’s always been friendly me, always made me feel like I was more than a probationary._ Da Silva has treated him well, taught him what he could about being a paramedic, never made him feel stupid.

“So, Brice,” Da Silva asks later, the two of them sitting alone in the dayroom, “What are your plans until starting paramedic training? Ya got another year yet.”

“I’m not exactly sure yet. I was thinking about going to another station, just to get some more experience around the department. I mean, I do like it here, but-“

“-but ya gotta spread your wings. I understand completely. Ya got started, got your feet wet, and now you wanna keep testin’ the waters.”

“A strange series of metaphors, but yes,” Brice agrees, “I would like to be able to test what I’ve learned from you and Crawford. I want to see how other stations operate.”

“That’s smart. I think I can make a couple suggestions if you like.”

“I would appreciate it.”

“Alright then… well, there’s an opening comin’ up at 68s, I think… but I’m sure you’d rather go where there’s a paramedic squad… in which case 16s C-shift should have a spot open soon. They’re a good group of guys over there… umm… oh, and I believe there’s gonna be a spot at 36s on A-shift. Those are probably gonna be your best bets, I think,” Da Silva says.

“Which, in your opinion, Da Silva, would be the best option?”

Leaning back on the couch, Da Silva purses his lips and thinks for a moment, finally saying, “I think you should try for 16s. It’s a good station, has good guys, a good captain. You’d be able to learn a lot there, Brice.”

Brice simply nods in response. He trusts Da Silva, trusts his judgment. _He does want what’s best for me._ He’s one of the only ones. Everyone else only seems to want Brice to do work and keep his head down and not ask too many questions, which always confused Brice because the entire point of the probationary is to learn and ask questions.

“ _Station 14, unknown type rescue…_ ”

Da Silva mutters, “Oh boy,” under his breath as they head for the apparatus. _This could be very interesting or it could be nothing._ They soon arrive at a small residential home, a panicked woman rushing to greet them.

“Oh, thank God! Hurry, please! I warned him, y’know! I warned him about those awful, awful beasts, but he wouldn’t listen to me! He’s in the garage!”

“Ma’am? Ma’am, what exactly is the problem?” Cap asks.

“Just- It bit him and won’t let go!”

“What bit him?”

“A snake!”

All but Brice and Da Silva stop in their tracks.

“What kind of snake?” Brice asks.

“I don’t really know. They all look the same to me, just horrible,” she says.

“Ma’am,” Da Silva says, “please keep goin’. We’ll take care of it.”

“Of course. Right this way.”

She takes them back to the small garage and opens the door. Sure enough, there’s a young man inside, a cast on one arm and a snake wrapped around the other.

“You’re not gonna kill her, are ya?” he asks, “You’re not gonna kill my snake?”

“That is not our intention. Right now, I just want to get her off your arm,” Brice tells him, “Does she bite often?”

“No, never. She’s shedding just now and can’t see very well, and I musta startled her somehow, so she bit me and she’s, uh, tryin’ to kill my arm.”

“Da Silva, go see if there’s any mouthwash in the house,” Brice says.

If he’s confused, he says nothing, and he returns shortly with a bottle of green liquid. Brice takes it, wets his fingers, and presses them into the ball python’s mouth. She lets go immediately. Carefully, Brice grabs her tail and begins unwinding her from the patient’s arm.

“Hey, that’s a neat trick,” the patient says, “Where’d ya learn that?”

“Florida.”

“I’m gonna have to remember that. Thanks, sir.”

“Why don’t ya come outside with me and we can treat that arm,” Da Silva says, “How’s it feel? Have any numbness, pain…”

Brice just carefully places the snake back in her case and replaces the lid before going outside. Da Silva is just bandaging the bite wound.

“Now, I don’t think you’ll need to go to the hospital, but you should go see your regular doctor tomorrow, get some antibiotics just in case. Sound good?”

“Sounds good. Listen, I promise you, Sheba’s a good snake. She’s never bit me like that before, probably never will again.”

“We believe you,” Brice tells him, “I put her back in her case for you. Just be mindful of her when she’s shedding. That’s when reptiles tend to be the most unpredictable.”

“I will, Mr. Brice. Thanks again for the mouthwash trick.”

Back at the station, Dawes says, “That was pretty fearless back there, Brice. Where the hell didja learn how to handle snakes, man?”

“Just something I learned once,” Brice shrugs, “something someone taught me.”

“Well, it’s badass. I could never do it. Snakes freak me out.”

“Why did the mouthwash work, anyway?” asks Da Silva.

“They don’t like the alcohol. It would’ve worked with any kind of alcohol, honestly,” Brice replies, “The man who taught me always had whiskey on hand.”

“Huh… I never knew that. Ya can’t just pull ‘em off?”

“No. They’re not venomous, but constrictors still have teeth. Their teeth curve backward, so it’s almost impossible to pull away or pull them off without inflicting more damage on yourself. Usually, they simply bite and let go once they realize their mistake, but since this one was shedding, it was difficult for her to see,” he says simply.

The information feels obvious to him, but he’d learned it years ago. _I just assumed it’s something everyone knows._ It’s never occurred to Brice that he could know something no one else at his station knows, even though he does read a great deal. He’s taught himself a few languages that way, went to Gainesville to see foreign films to get the accents right, tried to speak with people who knew the language. That’s not something he likes to brag about, though, as he doesn’t want to come off as elitist or a know-it-all or anything like that. _I haven’t even told Bowens that._ Maybe that will change as he grows in the department, but for now, he thinks it’s something he should keep to himself.

After his shift, he drives to the police station where Bowens works. Her car is in the shop, and he promised to pick her up when she’s done. Brice pulls into the parking lot and waits, watching the door. A few minutes pass before she comes out, walking with a lovely black girl, her skin a beautifully deep brown, her hair in a short afro. They walk together, stopping at a small yellow coupe, where they chat a few moments before parting with a hug. Brice cocks his head.

“Hey, Brice! How was your shift?”

“It was uneventful… save for the snake.”

“Snake?”

“A python bit her owner and wouldn’t let go. Nothing too bad,” he explains, asks, “Who was that you were talking to?”

“Oh, that- uh,, that’s Rosie. She’s another dispatcher. We kinda bonded over our weird names, Ivy and Primrose. She’s just- She’s super nice.”

Bowens’ speech is a little stilted, her cheeks flushed, but as Brice opens his mouth, she cuts him off with, “Hey, how ‘bout breakfast? My treat. Consider it thanks for drivin’ me around.”

“That’s not nece-“

“Yes it is. You deserve something for helpin’ me out.”

He knows better than to really argue, so he just turns the key, puts his truck in gear, and heads to the diner.

“So… an uneventful shift?” she asks.

“Essentially. We had a lot of calls overnight, but they weren’t anything really interesting. They simply kept us up all night for no reason,” he answers, “It’s very annoying.”

“Yeah, I bet. I mean, I’m up all night anyway, but I’m prepared for it, and I’m not up all day on top of it.”

With a mumbled, “Exactly,” they fall silent for a brief moment before Bowens speaks up, “So, ya talk to someone about transferring? I know you said you were gonna…”

“Yes, I spoke with Da Silva. He made some good recommendations for stations, but he said my best bet is Station 16. I would be on a different shift, though.”

“That happens.”

“It would affect our schedule, Bowens.”

“We can make a new schedule. We’re adults, Brice, smart adults. I think we can handle it. It’s not too far away, is it? Like, ya won’t have a bad commute?”

“No, it’s fairly near, still in the same division.”

“Well, that’s good, at least.”

“Why?”

“I just don’t wanna be lonely, is all. I’m used to havin’ you around.”

“If I’m not around, perhaps you could take the opportunity to spend more time with Rosie,” he says calmly.

Bowens turns bright pink and stammers out something just as their food arrives. _Very interesting._ She doesn’t mention Rosie the rest of the morning, and when they get home, she goes right into her apartment to go to sleep. _Very interesting, indeed._

xXxXx

“Well, we’re sad to see you go, Bob,” Campana says, “but I guess it’s for the best.”

“Yeah… just sucks to leave. You fellas have been great, really great.”

Peterson jumps in, “Where ya goin’ next, Bob?”

“Oh, just to 36s, but I’ll be switchin’ to C-shift, though,” he answers, taking a sip of his coffee, “It’ll be different, and I’ll miss some familiar faces, but it is what it is, I reckon.”

His two companions hum in agreement but say nothing else. It’s still early, and the coffee is strong and hot, its effects working slowly through their veins. Bob still feels a bit bad for leaving, but if he’s the one that’s unhappy, then he should be the one to make the change. Mark has a family, after all, and 16s is the station closest to his home, so it wouldn’t be fair to try and make him change. Bob makes friends easily enough, though, so he isn’t too worried about the change.

With a sigh, he looks to the two firemen sitting with him and realizes they probably won’t keep in touch. They’ll still recognize each other and be friendly, still chat at various functions or scenes, but they won’t be close. For all Bob’s friendliness, he has quantity over quality. He can have a conversation with just about anyone, but the relationships tend not to last or be very close. _This is gonna be the same… same as every other transfer._ This ease of moving has made him a popular transfer, and so he’s been in a number of stations through his career. He gives another little sigh, takes another sip of coffee.

In the early afternoon, Bob and Mark are called to a construction site for a nail gun injury. _Which could be anything, really._ A foreman waits for them at the entrance.

“What’s the problem here, sir?” Bob asks.

“New guy nailed his fingers together. Doesn’t look too serious, but it don’t look great, either.”

“I can imagine. Where’s he at?”

“At the trailer. This way…”

Sure enough, there’s a young black man sitting on the steps of the trailer, cradling his left hand. Bob puts on a reassuring smile and approaches him, asking, “Hi, sir, what seems to be the problem?”

“My second week on the job, and I managed to nail my fingers together somehow.”

“Well, lemme have a look at ya, see what we can do for ya…”

The patient allows Bob to take his wrist. The first three fingers of his left hand have a nail driven right through them. _Not even sure how he it, but he did it._

“How ya feelin’? Ya dizzy at all? Nauseous?”

“Nah, just hurts.”

“How bad’s your pain?”

“It ain’t the worst pain I’ve ever felt, but I’m sure not comfortable, either,” he says.

“Well, I’m gonna call Rampart and see what we can do for the pain, but I just got a couple more questions for ya, alright? Do ya have any medical problems or take any medications?”

“No.”

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

“What’s your name?”

“Tony. Tony Glass.”

“Wonderful, Tony,” Bob tells him, “I’m gonna call Rampart, and like I said, we’re gonna see if we can give ya somethin’ for the pain, okay? Just a minute…”

Mark passes him the biophone, and Bob calls in, “Rampart, this is Squad 16. Do you read?”

“ _Go ahead, 16,_ ” Dr. Early says.

“Uh, Rampart, we have a male patient, age nineteen, who has nailed his fingers together on the left hand. All vitals are normal. He has no other injuries, and he reports no other symptoms. Reports minor pain in the left hand.”

“ _16, go ahead and transport the patient as soon as the ambulance arrives. We’ll take care of everything here._ ”

“10-4, Rampart. Ambulance is arriving now. Our ETA is about ten minutes.”

“ _10-4._ ”

Hanging up, he turns to Tony and says, “Sorry, kid, nothin’ ‘til the hospital, but we’ll get ya there in a hurry, okay?”

“As long as ya hurry, I guess.”

They quickly load him into the ambulance, and Bob rides in with him, trying to keep up the small talk. _Tony seems like an awful nice kid._ He doesn’t appear too affected by his injury other than his discomfort.

“Sir?”

“Just call me Bob.”

“Bob… tell me… I’m gonna be okay, right?”

“Yeah, you’re gonna be just fine, kid,” Bob tells him, “Doesn’t even look to me like ya went through the bones. Couple stitches, some antibiotics, you’ll be on your way.”

“Good thing I already got my tetanus shot then, huh?”

“Very good thing, Tony.”

Once at the hospital, Early takes over, he and one of the younger nurses following the gurney into Treatment Four. Bob just collects all the equipment and goes to the bay to double check supplies.

“Well, hiya, Bob,” Dixie says warmly.

“Hey, Dix, how are ya?”

“Oh, I’m just fine. I heard you’re gonna be makin’ a change soon. 36s, right?”

“News travels fast. Yup, I’ll be headin’ to 36s C-shift. This is actually my last shift at 16s, and then I have a couple days off before joining that shift. It’ll be an interesting change, that’s for sure.”

“Sounds to me like it’ll be the right one, though. I’m thinkin’ of ya, Bob.”

“Thanks, Dix,” he smiles, “It means a lot to me.”

_At least I know Dixie’ll always have my back._ People like Bob and care about him, but not as much as he would like. He gives a little sigh, finds Mark, and they head back to 16s, the squad silent as ever. They’re almost back when Bob says, “Hey, Mark, listen… I don’t want ya to be upset with me. Just… you’re a good paramedic and a good partner but-“

“Aw, don’t worry about it, man,” Mark tells him calmly, “I know I’m not the best partner for ya. Got conflicting styles and personalities, is all. Woulda happened sooner or later.”

“Do ya know who’s takin’ my spot?”

“Uh… I think Romanski from 14s B-shift.”

“That’s good. He’s a good guy, knows his stuff,” Bob says.

Mark hums an agreement before saying, “And you should do well at 36s. I know Washington pretty well, and he’s your type of partner, I think. You’ll do good, Bob.”

That isn’t quite what he expected from his soon-to-be former partner, but it certainly makes him feel better to know there won’t be any hard feelings, that there aren’t any hard feelings now. Bob’s thankful the rest of the shift is uneventful. He’s heard horror stories of guys working their last shift at a station and being suddenly called to brush fires or auto accidents or being out on crazy runs that prolonged their time there. _Sometimes quiet is nice._ He’s got two whole days of quiet coming up before he switches to C-shift at 36s.

It’s a strange feeling, pulling everything out of his locker, all his books and clothes and extra uniforms coming out to make the move. _Been a while since I did this… and at the same time it feels like yesterday._ Bob gently places everything in his duffel bag to take home.

“Ah, so today’s the day, huh?” a paramedic from B-shift says.

“Yup. Got a coupla days off before I join 36s C-shift.”

“Hmm, lotta transfers lately. Y’know, Holcomb’s leavin’ our C-shift, too.”

“Oh yeah? You know who’s replacin’ him yet?” Bob asks.

“Uh, some kid from… 14s, I think? Dunno his name. Just finished his probie year.”

“Should be interesting, I guess. Anyway… see ya around, Vin.”

And then Bob walks out of 16s, goes to his car, gets in. He isn’t sure how to feel.

xXxXx

Brice takes a deep breath before getting out of his truck at 16s. This is as nerve-wracking as his first day at 14s last year. He knows one person on this shift, the other lineman, from when he subbed a few shift at 14s. George Sato is a nice enough person, not overly cordial but generally friendly, the sort of person Brice likes.

“Hey, Brice,” Sato greets him inside, “Good to see you again.”

“And you, Sato. I was pleased to see we would be working together.”

“Agreed. C’mon, I’ll introduce you to everyone here, show you your locker, stuff like that.”

He puts everything in his new locker, and then Sato leads him into the dayroom, saying, “Fellas, this is Craig Brice, our new lineman. Brice, this is Capt. Adams… our engineer, Englund… and our paramedics, MacKenzie and Forrester.”

They’re all cordial to Brice, smiling and shaking his hand, and the small talk begins. Brice does his careful dance around his personal life, sure to hold back any information that’s too sensitive or troubling. All he really tells them is that he’s from Florida, has just finished his probationary year, and wishes to become a paramedic. _That’s all they need to know._ It’s all he ever tells anyone. No one questions him any further, either content enough with those answers or uninterested enough not to care. Perhaps it’s sad that Brice doesn’t particularly care which it is.

At least they’re all friendly and not outwardly hostile to him, something which is still a bit alien to him. Brice thinks perhaps Da Silva put in a good word for him, told Capt. Adams he’s a good fireman, that he works hard. He’s never had anyone do that before. A sense of pride bubbles up in his chest, warm and bright and soothing.

Sato takes the time to show him around the station and tell where everything is and what their chores are like.

“Runs here are pretty simple,” Sato says, “Pretty much like they are everywhere. Mac and Forrester have a couple frequent flyers, but overall, it’s easy.”

“When I have paramedic questions, which is the best to ask?”

“You mean which one is friendlier? Probably Mac. He’s a bit more easygoing. Fair warning, though, half the time, he doesn’t answer to MacKenzie. He really likes for people to call him Mac.”

Brice bristles a little at that. He prefers to keep things proper and professional, has never liked nicknames, doesn’t even particularly like using given names. _Another quirk of mine people tend to dislike._ At 16s, however, Brice is the new kid on the block, so he’ll play by their rules as best he can, even if they’re a bit foreign to him. He isn’t given much time to ponder that, as the paramedics are gone most of the day with a variety of runs sounding as though they range from banal to comedic, but Brice wishes he were on any of them.

Finally, in the early evening, the station is called out to deal with a report of a woman in her fifties with a laceration to her leg refusing treatment. Before Brice can ask, Sato tells him, “If she’s bein’ arrested, then she has to be treated because she’s in police custody, and they have to take care of her. We still can’t force her to accept treatment unless she’s deemed an immediate danger to herself or others. If the laceration’s bad enough, it could be enough to sorta force treatment on her.”

“Even if she doesn’t consent to transport?”

“Once she’s in police custody, that doesn’t really matter anymore. Even if they just take her to jail as she is, odds are they’ll just send her to the hospital from there, anyway,” Sato explains, “Hey, I’m sure if you ask, Mac and Forrester would be willing to let you help with the patient.”

“You think so?”

“Don’t see why not, Brice. Won’t hurt to ask, at least.”

_That’s true enough, I suppose._ They find two squad cars parked outside a small, dingy bar, lights flashing and reflecting off the dark windows. Brice hops off the engine and goes to the squad, asking, “MacKenzie- umm, Mac? Would I be able to assist you in any way?”

“You wanna help with the patient?”

“Yes. I plan on becoming a paramedic soon and would like some experience.”

“Then absolutely. Just listen real close to me and Forrester, ‘kay?” Mac says, “Don’t waste time, and don’t ask questions. Just listen and do what we need, kid.”

Mac hands Brice the oxygen, and Brice dutifully follows the paramedics to the scene. Two officers flank a woman sitting on the curb, bleeding fairly profusely from her left leg, the calf neatly sliced open. It doesn’t look life-threatening to Brice, but he doesn’t really know yet, doesn’t have the training. He watches Mac put on a smile, ask, “What seems to be the trouble, fellas?”

“You know Barbie Potter, age fifty-six,” the officer replies, “Seems our friend Barbie had a bit too much to drink and cut her leg on a nail. She just wants us to take her to jail, but knowin’ this bar, I think it’s best if she goes to Rampart first.”

Giving the officer a nod, Mac steps forward, clearly asks, “How ya doin’, Barbie? Ya been hittin’ the sauce again?”

“Yah, a-a… a ‘lil bi’ there, Mac.”

“C’mon, you remember what me and Pete told ya last time. Ya gotta quit drinkin’ so much, Barbie. Now we gotta take ya to Rampart ‘cause of your leg, okay? You’re bleedin’ pretty bad there.”

“I don’ wanna go to th’ hospital,” she slurs, “Jus’ take me to jail.”

“Has she been placed under arrest?” Brice asks quietly.

“Yeah. We were mostly called because of her leg, but she got a ‘lil belligerent with us, started fightin’… spit at Jones here, which is technically assault. Mostly we just took her into custody ‘cause she won’t take care of herself,” the officer explains, “We don’t really wanna arrest Barbie. We like her. She’s usually a nice ol’ lady. Just got her dander up today, it seems.”

Brice takes another look at Miss Potter. For a moment when they pulled up, he’d thought the caller had been mistaken on the patient’s age. Fifty-odd years have not been kind to Miss Potter. Her hair shows signs of having been auburn once but is now a steely sort of grey and a bit ratty. Her face is wrinkled and blotched with color, making her seem at least twenty years older. She also appears to be missing a large number of teeth.

“Barbie, you’re gonna have to let us take care of your leg,” Mac says, “You’re bleedin’ and-“

“No! No, I jus’ wanna go to jail!”

“We’ll take ya to jail after your leg is patched up. You know the drill. Look-… Hey, Brice, c’mere… Barbie, this is Craig Brice. He’s gonna help us with your leg, okay?”

Another small argument ensues as Miss Potter explains that she doesn’t want help, but she finally gives in. Brice moves in a bit closer, and Mac tells him, “Okay, kid, you help me out here, and Pete’s gonna call it all in. Sound good?”

“Sounds good.”

“Alright, just do what I say…”

Brice diligently follows all the instructions Mac provides in terms of applying the blood pressure cuff, watches him work, wants to learn all he can even before he gets into the training program

“Okay, Barbie, we’re gonna give ya an IV that’s gonna help ya feel better. Brice, hold her arm… just like that… good… watch me-“

“Ow! Jesus-“

Yanking his arm back, Brice surveys the damage. There are five holes in his forearm where Miss Potter sank her teeth in, all five showing as she laughed hoarsely. Mac reprimands her like he would a child as Brice steps away. Forrester comes over, asks, “Barbie got ya, huh? C’mere, let’s patch ya up.”

“Is this a common occurrence? Miss Potter biting paramedics and firemen?”

“Kinda, yeah. Every so often she gets to drinkin’ vodka and that’s what gets her feisty like this. When she’s on whiskey, she’s much nicer. I think everyone who deals with her’s been bit at least once, like a-a rite of passage or something. She got ya pretty good, though… Yeah, I’ll take ya to Rampart in the squad and-“

“Do I have to go to Rampart?”

“I’d recommend it. You’re gonna need antibiotics, probably. Human bites are nasty.”

Brice feels himself pout. _My first day here, and I get hurt. This is not the impression I was hoping to make._ It must show in his face because Forrester says, “Don’t worry about it, kid. Barbie’s quick. She could get anyone. Shows you were payin’ attention to Mac, so that’s good. Ya did good.”

He says it in an offhand way, as if commenting on the weather, but it still makes Brice feel good. Again, he watches the paramedic work, Forrester carefully cleaning the small wounds and bandaging his forearm. They’re always so interesting to watch, the paramedics. They’re all firemen, all look like firemen, either burly or wiry but always tough. They don’t look like they should be gentle and careful, but they are, and Brice doesn’t know if the gentleness is in their training or if they come by it naturally. It scares him because he isn’t sure he has that kind of gentleness in him.

“There ya go, kid,” Forrester says, patting his arm, “all good to go. Still wanna take ya to Rampart for some antibiotics, though. I’ll tell Cap.”

Sato makes his way over, smiling faintly, says, “So, Barbie gets another victim.”

“Yes, I’m sorry to say she did… though I don’t know why.”

“Ah, she bites everyone. That’s just Barbie. Bit me once, too. Bit Mac a few months ago… and she’s got Forrester twice.”

“But why, Sato?”

He just shrugs, “I dunno, guess it’s just ‘cause she’s crazy. Crazy people bite sometimes.”

Brice decides not to push it any further, knowing he won’t get a better answer. _After all, I have to play by new rules now._

xXxXx

“Hey, Bob!”

“Oh, hey there, Pete,” he replies, “How’s it goin’?”

“It goes, it goes. What’d you guys bring in?” Forrester asks.

“Kid with a broken arm. Compound fracture. Fell outta her bunk bed. You?”

“Mac and the new kid had the pleasure of treating Barbie Potter tonight. She got drunk, got a leg lac, and bit the new kid. At least he’ll be quicker next time. Y’know, it’s good to see ya on C-shift, Bob. How ya like it so far?”

“Can’t complain. Washington’s a good fella, nice guy. And all the guys at 36s are great so far. Just a ‘lil different, but I’ll get used to it. It’s only my first day, after all.”

“You’ll get into the swing of it soon enough. Anyway, I’m gonna check on the new kid. Barbie got him good. See ya around, Bob.”

“Yeah, Pete, I’ll see ya.”

Wondering who this new kid is, Bob still just walks away, having replenished the supplies for 36s. Washington is still with the patient, though, so Bob decides to check on Barbie. He’s treated her plenty of times when he was at 16s, and it’s nice to check up on regulars. He spends a few minutes with Barbie and Mac and Early, all three dodging Barbie’s ‘love bites’ with practiced ease. She looks a little worse than when he saw her last, but that’s to be expected with her level of alcohol intake. _Liver failure’s on her horizon._ He soon leaves, his new partner poking his head in and urging him out, but not before telling Barbie hello himself.

“Can’t believe she’s still alive,” Washington comments.

“Every time it just gets a ‘lil harder to believe. She don’t look good.”

“Eh, people like Barbie live forever, you know that. They get this close-“ his fingers barely touch, “-to dying, like every year, but they always manage to pull it out somehow,” Washington says.

Bob doesn’t reply except for an affirmative. He’s already seen a few rescue regulars succumb to their myriad illnesses and disorders and addictions, either dying in the hospital or dying in their bed or dying in the street. _Just the way of life. People die._ He knows this as well as anyone. Now, Bob wouldn’t say he’s bad luck, but he’s had some bad luck since becoming a paramedic, has seen more than his fair share of death. He just tries to take it in stride. It’s all he can do.

Looking out the window, he watches the trees pass by, some with orange and yellow leave still clinging to their branches. _Someday, I’ll go to the mountains and watch the leaves change._ November in Los Angeles is okay, but it’s no place to see the leaves change colors. He just watches everything pass by, tries to remember new streets and businesses. Some are familiar. Others are not. _It’s just the way things are… the way they always are._

Still, Bob feels good about his new station, about the switch, about his new partner. It’s like a breath of fresh air after breathing it bottled or contaminated by smoke, and he’s excited. He’s energized by the change. Even after more than a decade in the department, he sometimes can’t believe he gets to do this every day, and switching stations makes it feel brand new again. Maybe he doesn’t mind changing stations often as much as he thought he did.

They return to 36s, and Washington goes over a couple more station specifics for Bob until they get another call. It’s something else benign and simple, one in a long series this shift: a broken arm, a fender bender, a leg stuck in a wall, a cut finger. They go through the shift easily, which Bob supposes is good. He’d much rather have his first day on a new shift be easy than crazy. _We can have crazy another day._ The boredom is preferable.

“So, tell me about yourself, Bob,” Washington had said when they returned from their latest run.

“What do ya wanna know?”

“I dunno, whatever you feel is important. Like… how long ya been with the department… where ya been before… where you’re from, your family, all that kinda stuff, I guess.”

“Jeez… I been in the department over ten years… somethin’ like fifteen years, actually. Been in a buncha different stations over the years. Think it’s about nine total now,” Bob replied, “Did some time at a brush station once, but I didn’t really like it that much. I like people. I like helpin’ people, so that wasn’t a good fit. I dunno, I just really like bein’ a paramedic, is all. This is my dream job, honestly.”

“I know what you mean. I never thought I’d be doin’ a job like this, but here I am. Y’know, I even delivered a baby last week. My first one.”

“Yeah? Babies are nice. I like deliverin’ babies. I’ve done three so far.”

“Then ya have to let me do the next two to catch up, then we can switch off,” Washington laughed.

“Whatever makes ya happy. I’m pretty easygoin’.”

“Sounds good to me… Alright, what about your family?”

“Oh, we’re all from LA. Mom and Dad were born here, and my sisters and brother and me were born here, too. Then they all had their kids here in LA, so we’re all still pretty close. It’s nice. It really is.”

“That’s your only family, then?” Washington asked, “No wife or kids?”

“Nope. None.”

“Yeah? Why not?”

“Just not what-… Just never met the right one, I guess.”

Thankfully, Washington dropped that particular conversation after that, because Bob wasn’t sure how much more detail he would have been able to go into. He’s still thinking about the conversation when he goes home in the morning. Looking around the small apartment, he just takes it all in. It’s small but not tiny, just right for one guy with not a lot of stuff. Books cover every available surface not already taken up by framed photos of Bob and his family. It’s cozy, lived in, comfortable.

_But sometimes it’s so goddamn lonely._ He’s often wondered if there’s something wrong with him. That’s what he’s been taught, after all, that a desire for sex and romantic companionship is normal and healthy. So if he doesn’t want either of those things, what does that make him? Does that make him abnormal? Unhealthy? Queer? He’s certainly been called queer enough times by enough people on the job. (He doesn’t take it hard, though. Bob’s a tolerant man. Queer’s hardly the worst thing a person can be.) Usually, all this doesn’t eat at him. Usually, he can simply go about his life without it bothering him. Usually, he doesn’t even really think about it.

Then come the days when he feels that he’ll never think of anything else, when a deep fear seizes him that he will be alone forever but dammit, he doesn’t want to get married or have a relationship either but there’s nothing in between the two states. If there is, no one has informed him. Easter always tells him he’ll find someone in the way he wants, but Bob doesn’t know how that can be when no one else is the same kind of freak he is. With a sigh, Bob tries to shake out the rude thoughts, sets himself to cleaning up his piles of books and sorting them into new piles. It keeps him occupied.

xXxXx

Brice makes his way up the stairs to his apartment, hears the familiar click of Bowens’ door, feels himself smile slightly. He’s never had such a close friend before, never had someone he was always so happy to see. She leans on her doorframe, smiling, bowl of cereal in hand.

“Hey, man, what happened to your arm?” she asks.

“I was bitten.”

“Bitten? Bit by what? A dog? A hamster? A bear?”

“I believe it is quite clear I was not bitten by a bear, Bowens.”

“Coulda been a small bear.”

“It was not a bear… or any kind of animal.”

Her eyes go wide as she says, “Oh my god, you got bit by a patient.”

“Yes. She was in her mid-fifties, appeared to be in her mid-seventies, and managed to bite me with all five of her teeth,” Brice explains, “I have been assured this is her usual behavior.”

“Was her name Barbie, by any chance?” she asks.

“Yes, it was. Barbie Potter.”

“Oh, I love Barbie! She’s in the jail all the time. Y’know, she’s really seen some shit.”

“Not to be rude, but she certainly looks as though she has.”

“Well, rampant alcoholism doesn’t really look good on anyone. She’s just- She’s had hard times, been through hard shit, and it really fucked her up. She was in WWII, y’know? She was a Navy nurse on a hospital ship in the Pacific, saw lots of bad shit there… there and in Korea.”

“Where did you learn this?”

“She told me,” Bowens shrugs.

“When?”

“When she was in the drunk tank once, soberin’ up. She looked lonely, so I went to talk with her. Ended up mostly just lettin’ her do all the talkin’, really. It was nice.”

“Did she bite you?” Brice asks.

“She tried. What I heard is that if she bites you it’s ‘cause she likes you.”

“That doesn’t seem very friendly.”

“That’s just Barbie,” she replies, “Plenty of guys at the department been bit a few times. Better than if she doesn’t like ya. If she doesn’t like ya, she spits. Like Jones. She doesn’t like Jones one bit. Nobody does, really. The other cops don’t like him ‘cause he’s overconfident, and we don’t like him in dispatch ‘cause he’s crude. I send him out for Barbie every chance I get ‘cause it’s funny to hear him complain when she spits on him.”

“How devious of you.”

“I gotta get my kicks somehow, Brice. That’s why I’m gonna eat my cereal and get ready for work.”

“You’re working again today?”

“Yup. Picked it up yesterday. I need the money for Little Bug’s new tires,” she says.

Brice makes no direct reply, but they continue to make small talk until Bowens leaves for work, Bowens promising, “I’m not working too late, so if you want, we can have dinner when I get home.”

“If you’d like. That sounds nice.”

“Alright, it’s a date. See ya later, Brice.”

He watches her go, feels mildly confused, heads into his own apartment. Looking around, he takes it all in, surveying the space. It’s meticulously tidy, a place for everything and everything in its place. Bowens once compared it to a showroom or pictures in a magazine. A few personal items and photographs are scattered through the living room, but overall, it feels very sterile. Sometimes, he wishes he could let loose like others could and have an apartment that looks lived in. Sometimes, he’ll leave something out of place just to try it, but he’s then seized with an irrational fear that someone will come in and berate him for leaving a mess. _But this place is mine… mine and mine alone._

Another moment passes as Brice casts another gaze over his apartment. _Alone is an accurate description._ It’s what he’s chosen, though, in a manner of speaking. Besides the simple fact that he has no interest in a relationship of a romantic or sexual nature, he’s come to realize that it’s better to stay alone than become alone. Crawford’s leaving taught him that all over again. _I can’t be disappointed if there’s no one to disappoint me._ Still, even a loner gets lonely sometimes.

Brice shakes the thoughts from his head and goes about tidying a nonexistent mess. It keeps his mind off the loneliness, at least until Bowens comes back.


	7. Blow Us All Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: some language, mild depictions of injury, mentioned death

The day is cloudy, a little chilly, overall very typical for February. Brice sits atop the hose tower with Sato, helping Englund hang hose. It’s a fairly simple task, one of the little jobs he enjoys doing. Even though it’s a bit time consuming, the three of them can complete the task in relatively short order. Brice takes a moment, just sitting atop the hose tower, looking out over their little section of Los Angeles County. He lets the cool wind blow through his hair, allows himself to shiver, forces his brain to shut down for a moment.

They’d had a bad run last week, a whole family dead from carbon monoxide poisoning, including the pets. It had been a long time since Brice threw up, but he did that day. He shivers more forcefully, not just from the chill this time.

“You okay, Brice?”

He opens his eyes. Sato sits beside him still, dark eyes concerned.

“I’m fine. I was just trying to… not think, I suppose.”

“Yeah, I get that. Last week was pretty shitty for all of us. Did ya wanna talk about it at all?”

Brice ponders for a moment, says, “I don’t really know.”

“Just lemme know if you do. I’m always happy to listen. C’mon, let’s get down from here. I’ll buy ya a cup of coffee.”

“We don’t pay for coffee by the cup.”

Sato snorts quietly, and Brice knows the comment put him at ease. Sometimes, it’s best to behave as he normally does. Normality is comforting for everyone. Inside, Brice runs a hand through his hair and accepts the mug of black coffee. Mac and Forrester are already out on a run. Cap is doing paperwork. Englund has disappeared into the bay, presumably, leaving Brice and Sato alone in the small kitchen. They sit at the table, enjoying each other’s quiet company.

After a long moment, Sato says, “Hey, uh… I don’t mean to pry or nothin’… but I happened to see ya out a couple nights ago with, uh, a young lady.”

“Your point?”

“I just didn’t know you were seein’ somebody, is all. You never talk about her.”

“We’re not seeing each other,” Brice explains, “She’s my friend. She lives in the apartment across from mine, and we spend time together.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes. That’s it. She was the first person I really met here in Los Angeles. She helped me move into my apartment, showed me around the city, helped me get settled.”

“And you’re sure there’s nothin’ else there?”

“I’m sure. I thought you didn’t want to pry?” Brice asks with a little smirk.

“Okay, ya got me there,” he replies, raising his hands in mock defeat, “Just- What’s her name?”

“Her name is Bowens. Ivy Bowens.”

“Cute name. Fitting for a cute girl.”

Brice merely shrugs, unwilling to admit he’d never noticed aside from noting her features. Thankfully, Sato decides to drop the subject and instead asks him about an article in _Fire Engineering_ , sparking a discussion until they’re called on a run for a trash fire. It’s a short trip. Brice twists in his seat to look forward when they arrive, says, “That is not a trash fire.”

Instead of refuse, they find a burning sedan in an alleyway, several police officers standing by. _That doesn’t bode well._ Sato hurries to hook a line up to the nearest hydrant, while Brice pulls the line off the back and gets into position, waiting for it to charge. After a few moments, Sato joins him on another line, both now charged and heavy. Brice plants his feet and adjusts his position. His body jerks back slightly when he opens his line. A familiar thrill runs through him, thrill at the power he holds in his hands. It feels good.

He and Sato make quick work of the fire, but when they move in to do some cleanup, the officers stop them, a detective saying, “We’ll take it from here.”

“But we have to make sure the fire is out,” Brice frowns, “If even one spark is left, the fire could start again.”

“We don’t want the scene contaminated.”

“It was contaminated as soon as we began to put it out.”

“He’s got ya there, Joe,” Cap calls, smirking, “Let ‘em finish up.”

The policeman huffs and steps back, allowing Brice and Sato to do what overhaul they could. When they finished, the two are quickly ushered back to their engine.

“Wonder what that was all about,” Sato mumbles as they take their seats.

“Some criminal must have dropped his car and set fire to the evidence.”

“Duh… I just wonder what kind of criminal. Like a gangster? A druglord? A serial killer?”

“You’re letting your imagination get the better of you, Sato,” Brice tells him, “Besides, if it’s something big, we’ll see it in the paper tomorrow.”

“Ya think?”

“Of course, but I also think it’s a big ‘if’ that it’s that important.”

“You’re really a buzzkill, you know that right?”

“It’s been said.”

Mac and Forrester have returned from their run by the time they get back, both sipping coffee.

“Hey, fellas,” Mac says, “Hey, Cap, there was a phone call for ya. Took a message and left it on the desk in there.”

“Who was it?”

“Someone from headquarters.”

“Great, wonder what form I fuckin’ filled out wrong this time…”

Continuing to grumble, Cap heads into the office. Mac gives a little snort, asks, “So how was your trash fire, fellas?”

“Not a trash fire,” Englund says.

“Turned out to be a car someone set on fire,” Sato explains, “I think it was a master criminal destroying evidence… maybe even a body.”

“Well, aren’t you a ray of sunshine?”

“I’m just sayin’, why else does anyone set a car on fire?” Sato asks.

“There’s insurance money.”

“Revenge.”

“Maybe there was a spider in it.”

Sato flashes his middle finger at them and grabs some more coffee for himself. Leaning against the counter, Brice allows himself a small smile.

“Hey, Brice! C’mere!” Cap calls.

The smile falls away, doubt and fear creeping in on him. Did he do something wrong today? Is it because he argued with the policeman? Or is it to do with the call from headquarters? _Jesus, I must have fucked up badly if headquarters wants me._ He forces himself to calm down as he walks into the office with, “You wished to see me, Cap?”

“Yeah, have a seat.”

Brice perches on the edge of the chair, hands fidgeting in his lap.

“Christ, calm down, kid. You’re not gettin’ hanged. That was the paramedic chief, Duggan. He just wanted me to tell ya to meet him at his office at 0900 tomorrow. That alright with you?”

“Ye- umm… Ye-Yes, sir. That’s fine. Did he say why?”

“Nope. Just said for you to meet him 0900 tomorrow. Hope it’s good news, kid.”

Recognizing the dismissal, Brice murmurs an agreement and wanders back out, debating briefly if he should go back into the kitchen.

“What was that about?” Sato asks.

“Umm… someone at headquarters wants me to come in and speak with him tomorrow,” Brice answers, “The, uh, the paramedic chief, actually.”

“You’ll be okay,” Forrester speaks up, “Chief Duggan’s great. Real nice guy.”

“Probably just wants to talk to ya about the paramedic program some more,” Mac adds, “He knows you’re interested in the program. Imagine you’ve told all of paramedic HQ by now.”

Heat creeps into Brice’s cheeks. _That’s not untrue._ He’s made his intentions within the department quite clear from day one, so it would make sense for Chief Duggan to know his name. That does not, however, necessarily explain why Chief Duggan wants to speak with him personally. Fear floods back into his system.

“You okay, kid?” Mac asks.

“Yes… Yes, I-I think so. Just-… I’m… What do I wear? Should I go in civilian- of course not. That’s ridiculous. Do I just go in my daily uniform? Should I put on my dress uniform-“

“Whoa, calm down there. You’re overthinkin’ this,” Mac tells him, rising from his chair and leading Brice into the locker room, “Look, Duggan’s one of us. He was in World War II as a medic, then joined the department as a lineman, became a rescue man, and he’s worked his way up the ladder. He’s not expectin’ perfection, just good, honest, hard work. I’m sure he’s not expectin’ ya to show up in your dress uniform. Just show up after work and make your best impression. Be yourself, kid.”

“That’s hardly good advice. Being myself doesn’t usually make a good impression.”

“Well then, be the you that you think will make him like you. Just don’t be fake.”

“But why does he want to speak with me personally?” Brice asks.

“Hell if I know, but I’m sure it’s nothin’ bad. You’re a ‘lil weird, but you’re good at your job, kid. Nobody can deny that. Relax. You’re gonna be fine.”

_It certainly doesn’t feel like it._ Mac leaves him alone in the locker room to wonder just what might be coming next. The not knowing is awful. He hates not knowing, hates surprises, hates waiting. It leaves him with an itchy sort of feeling under his skin, and the only way he knows how to relieve it is cleaning. They go on a couple simple runs, but every time they come back, Brice cleans whatever he can find. He even does everyone else’s duties. They all look a bit confused, but no one asks any questions.

“Brice, what are you doing?”

“I am cleaning the oven, Sato.”

“I can see that. Why are you cleaning the oven at one in the morning?”

“It needs to be done. Was I being too loud? I can clean more quietly.”

“You’ve spent the whole day cleaning. C’mon… come turn in.”

“I need to finish-”

“Finish it in the morning,” Sato tells him.

“I’m almost done. Then I’m going to clean the-“

“No. C’mon, man, when you’re done the oven, you need to go to bed.”

Brice turns to look at him. Sato obviously had tried to sleep, stands before Brice with his black hair mussed, bunkers slung low about his hips, brow knitted. With a quiet sigh, he grabs a chair and sits by Brice, just watching him.

“Talk to me, Brice.”

“About what?”

“About why you’re cleaning the oven at one AM. I dunno… you seemed alright when we were hangin’ hose today and on that first run… but then ya got word about meetin’ with Chief Duggan and ya did a 180. Just appreciate it if you’d talk to me about it.”

For a moment, Brice doesn’t answer, leaning back into the oven to scrub, but he soon backs out, looking at Sato. He says, “Just-… Sato, I- I can’t know if it’s going to be good news.”

“That’s no reason to freak out over it. Ya can’t know it’ll be bad news.”

“But it might be! I just- I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. I don’t why Chief Duggan wants to see me personally. Why would he if I haven’t fucked up somewhere?”

Sato raises his eyebrows, likely surprised by Brice’s use of vulgarity, but he doesn’t comment on it, instead quietly asks, “Does it really never occur to you that good things happen?”

“In my experience, good things are usually followed closely by bad things.”

“Maybe this time it’ll be the other way around. Ya deserve something good after last week.”

Brice ducks his head, flinches when Sato touches his shoulder. He’s wary of getting too close with anyone after what happened with Crawford, and even though the others are trying to get through his walls, he’s built them tall and strong. Sometimes, though, it’s nice to be able to let a bit of emotion through.

“Last week was awful,” Brice says, voice barely above a whisper, “I’ve never seen so many people dead in one spot. And-… they just looked like they were sleeping.”

“They didn’t even know they were dying. Just fell asleep and didn’t wake up. Honestly, that’s probably the best way to go, just fall asleep and that’s that. Seen plenty of people die worse ways.”

“I have, too, but… never a whole family, Sato.”

“Neither have I… but look, there was nothin’ we could do for them. Just some shitty luck on their part when the heater conked out,” Sato explains, “and it was our shitty luck to get the call. Sometimes that’s how it works.”

“It’s awful.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

The two of them sit together in silence for a long moment before Sato says, “C’mon man, let’s go turn in. It’s late.”

Brice abandons the oven and follows his partner into the dorm.

xXxXx

“ _Gee, Brice, if ya keep leavin’ messages for me at work, people are gonna talk._ ”

“I was trying to alert you that I won’t be home at my usual time today.”

“ _Everything okay? You’re not at Rampart, are you?_ ”

“Bowens, how could I be at Rampart if you called me at the station?” he states.

“ _Touché. What’s goin’ on? Pick up another shift?_ ”

“No, Paramedic Chief Duggan asked me to meet him in his office at 0900 this morning.”

“ _Wow, really? What for?_ ”

“I’m not sure.”

“ _Ah, I’m sure it’s good. Hey, I’m gonna get outta here and get home. I’ll see ya later. Just lemme know how everything goes, alright?_ ”

“I will, Bowens. Bye.”

“ _Later, Brice._ ”

Hanging up the phone, Brice takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. The guys all wish him luck as he heads out, but it doesn’t really make him feel any better. _Why would they wish me luck if I didn’t need it?_ He climbs into his old green truck and makes his way over to headquarters, arriving almost thirty minutes early, much to the amusement of Duggan’s secretary. That’s what he understood from her conversation in Spanish with another Latina secretary, anyway.

“Ah, Brice, you’re a little early, aren’t you?” Duggan says from his doorway.

Brice jumps to his feet, saying, “Yessir. I just wanted to be sure I’d be on time.”

“You certainly were on time. C’mon in, son. Have a seat.”

He’s ushered into the office, where he slowly perches on the edge of the chair. Brice has only met Duggan once before, back when he was at 14s and Duggan came to speak with the paramedics. A little intimidated, Brice at least knows Duggan is kind. The older man even looks kind, a brawny man with dark brown skin and a round face and deep brown eyes that exude warmth. His calm presence begins to put Brice at ease.

“How are you today, Mr. Brice?” Duggan asks, leaning back in his chair, smiling.

“I am well, sir. I confess, though, that I am a bit… confused as to the purpose of this meeting,” Brice answers, “If I’ve done something wrong-“

“You’re not here because you’ve done something wrong. Far from it, in fact. Everyone you’ve worked with so far has offered glowing reviews of your knowledge and deportment. Also heard you’re very curious about the paramedics, always asking plenty of questions on the job.”

“Yessir. I came to Los Angeles specifically to join to the paramedic program.”

“I imagine you’re getting pretty impatient,” Duggan says, “Finished your probie year in November, right? At 14s?”

“Yessir, I did.”

“I called up Morris Crawford the other day-“ Brice tries to hide his flinch at the name, “-and he spoke very highly of you. Said you were bright, eager, knowledgeable, ready to learn… everything we like to see in our people… and all good to have in a paramedic. Do you know the training schedule?”

“A paramedic class started in November, then there’s one beginning in May. With my starting date in the department, I’m not eligible to begin training until next May.”

“What if I told you that you’re being allowed to start earlier than that?”

“Sir?”

His heart started beating faster, fluttering almost uncomfortably in his chest. Duggan is still smiling warmly as he says, “You’re a lucky young man, Brice, and you’re skilled. That’s why we’re allowing a bit of a change to procedure and admitting you to the paramedic class in May at Rampart.”

Brice’s heart stops for a moment. He blinks at Duggan, unsure of what he just heard.

“You’ll join the Rampart class in May, and that will be your job until September. And then, Firefighter Brice… you will be Paramedic Brice.”

“Sir, I-I-I-… I don’t know what to- what to even say-… I can’t-… Thank you, sir.”

“You are very welcome, son. First Monday in May, 0800. Be in Rampart’s emergency bay. We’ll send you some more information as the day comes closer. For now, go celebrate. Congratulations.”

Brice takes another few seconds to thank Duggan profusely before heading out, carefully trying to control his expression. Back in his apartment, he heads right for the phone.

“ _Hello, this is Morris Crawford._ ”

“Crawford? Morris? It’s Craig Brice.”

“ _Craig! How are ya, kid? It’s good to hear from ya!_ ”

“I-I’m fine. I just wanted to call you and thank you,” Brice says shakily.

“ _What for?_ ”

“I spoke with Chief Duggan today and-… They’re going to let me start paramedic training early, start this May. He said he spoke with you, so… so thank you.”

“ _Anything for you, kid,_ ” Crawford tells him warmly, “ _You deserve it. You deserve good things, deserve your dream job. I know you’re gonna be great, Craig. Gonna knock ‘em all for a loop._ ”

“I’ll try. God, Morris, I really can’t thank you enough for helping me.”

“ _Oh, don’t you worry about it. It was my pleasure. Only way I could possibly think of for you to thank me would be to drop in for a visit. Laurie and the kids would love it, too._ ”

“That sounds fine. I’ll call soon with dates I could visit.”

“ _I look forward to it._ ”

“Me, too, Morris. Me, too.”

xXxXx

Washington comes over and sits by Bob, asking, “Hey, ya hear the news, man?”

“Depends. What news ya talkin’ about, Jeff?”

“Paramedic news.”

“What, we’re all gonna get raises and new squads?” Bob smirks.

“Sadly, no. Just come through the ol’ grapevine,” Washington explains, “There’s a kid gonna start paramedic training in May, only a year and a half in the department.”

“Must be good, then. Ya hear a name on the kid?”

“Nah, just heard he’s on 16s C-shift. Thought it was interesting, is all.”

Bob hums in agreement, tries to think of who it could be at 16s. That C-shift doesn’t have any really young guys, at least not when he’d left. _Keep forgetting that was four months ago._ He remembers hearing one of the linemen transferred out at that time, so it’s likely the young guy Washington mentioned moved in when he left. _I think it was Holcomb. Yeah, Holcomb left when I did._ He never did find out that kid’s name, the one Forrester mentioned, but he must be good if they’re allowing him to go into training early. Whoever he is, Bob would like to meet him.

“ _Squad 36, report of a head injury at the basketball court…_ ”

“There it is,” Washington says.

The court isn’t far away, sits in the middle of a park, a gaggle of young men in a small huddle near one of the hoops. Bob and Washington make their way in, Washington saying, “Alright, fellas, move. C’mon, don’t crowd him now… That’s good, just get back.”

Bob goes to the young man on the ground, asks, “You wanna tell me what happened, pal?”

“I-… I don’t really know, honestly,” he replies, “Just-… I think… I think I went up for a dunk, and then I was on the ground.”

“The rim broke off,” another boy says, “He went up for the dunk and snapped the rim off. I mean, it was pretty impressive, definitely, but it sure messed his ass up.”

“How exactly did he fall?”

“Pretty hard… he had, like, all his weight up on the rim, so he kinda fell back. Like, his legs flipped out from under him,” he explains.

“What’s his name?”

“Freddy.”

“Alright… Hey, Freddy, you remember any of that?” Bob asks.

“Umm… I remember… I remember jumpin’ up… but that’s it. Man, my head’s killin’ me.”

“That’s ‘cause ya whacked it off the ground. Here, lemme check your eyes… No, don’t do anything. Just let me flash this light in your eyes to check your pupils…Yeah, just like that… Good, Freddy…”

Overall, his vitals look good, so Bob tells him, “Okay, Freddy, you’re lookin’ pretty good, but the way your head hit the ground and you not rememberin’ what happened just has us a ‘lil worried, okay? So we’re gonna take ya to Rampart and have ‘em look ya over there, okay?”

“O-Okay… I’m gonna be okay?”

“Yeah, you’re gonna be just fine, pal. Don’t worry. Doctor just wants to make sure you’re alright.”

Bob does his best to make the young man feel comfortable, to put him at ease, so he smiles and cracks little jokes and tries to keep Freddy’s mind off what happened to him. It seems to work. Freddy smiles bit, jokes back, but he does still complain of pain once in the ambulance.

“Yeah, I know it hurts, man, but I can’t give ya anything for the pain. Pain meds don’t mix well with concussions. Once the doc checks ya out, he might be able to give ya something for it, but not right now.”

“Could you-? Could you explain it to me?” Freddy asks.

“Sure. I mean, it’s pretty simple. Opiates are a depressant. Slow down your nervous system, respiratory system, circulatory system, all that. When you have some kinda trauma to the brain, that stuff already gets a ‘lil messed up ‘cause the brain is tryin’ to sort everything out. Pain meds like that can mask your condition, too, make ya seem alright when ya might not be. After a couple days, if ya still have pain, they’ll probably give ya somethin’.”

“Makes sense when you put it all like that.”

“I do what I can.”

“Say, how did ya get this job?”

“I was a fireman, and they came lookin’ for volunteers.”

“C’mon, man, y’know what I mean,” Freddy says.

“Took a lotta training, few months of it, five days a week, plenty of hard studyin’… but I wouldn’t trade it for the world, I can tell ya that. Best job I ever had.”

“So you really like it?”

“I love it. It’s- oh, we’re here at Rampart…”

It’s a quick trip into emergency, where Bob passes Freddy off to Dixie and Early, giving them a little wave before heading out a to the squad.

“You sure got a way with patients, Bob,” Washington says.

“My sister tells me I could calm down a pissed off grizzly just by talkin’.”

“I’m inclined to agree with her-“

“ _Squad 36, are you available?_ ”

With a sigh, Bob picks up the radio, calls in, “Squad 36, available.”

“ _Squad 36, respond with Station 16, motor vehicle accident on the freeway, multiple vehicles…_ ”

Washington hits the lights and sirens and pushes down the gas pedal, speeding them toward the freeway. _At least it’s the middle of the day. Not much traffic._ 16s is already there when they arrive, the paramedics already working on the worse looking of the three vehicles, a sedan with both sides scraped and crumpled in, pressed up against the divider.

“Fellas, we need ya to check that van over there!” the captain calls.

Bob jogs ahead at Washington’s insistence. The VW van is scratched and dented on the driver’s side and also has the front end smashed in. A quick scan reveals only one occupant.

“Hey man, how ya doin’?” Bob calls, “Ya feelin’ okay?”

“I guess… I guess I’m feelin’… feelin’ okay? Guess I’m alright? What happened?”

“You were in a car accident. Do you remember anything before this?”

“I remember… I remember leavin’ work… comin’ onto the freeway… nothin’ else…”

“Have you had any alcohol today?”

“No.”

“Take any drugs?”

“N-No.”

“Don’t lie to me, man. I’m not the police. I’m just here to help ya,” Bob says firmly.

“I haven’t took-took anything. I just got off work,” the man says.

Bob carefully check him over, putting on the C-collar just to be safe. The man cries out when Bob palpates his hip and one of his wrists, again when they pull him out of the van.

“Hey, I gotta go check this other car, Bob.”

“Yeah, you go, Jeff…”

Turning, Bob calls for help, sees a skinny lineman come running over, turns back to the patient. As soon as the lineman arrives, he asks him, “Kid, you know how to use the biophone?”

“I do.”

“Good. That’s your job. Call in Squad 36 and tell ‘em to standby for vitals.”

The lineman does as he’s told, soon relays, “Rampart, vital signs are… pulse 130, respirations 25, BP is 130/90… Patient is experiencing tenderness in the left wrist and right hip, possibly both fractured… Rampart requests IV with Ringer’s and 5mg MS IV push. Also that we stabilize the hip and wrist for transport.”

Bob walks him through set up of the splints as he administers the IV, and he finally takes a good look at the young man.

“Didn’t realize that was you, Brice. How are ya?”

“As well as I can be at the moment,” he answers, “I do have some information I’d like to share with you, but I don’t feel now is an appropriate time.”

“I’ll probably catch ya at Rampart. Here, let’s finish up. I hear the ambulances.”

Two of 16s patients have to be airlifted out while two ambulances take in the remaining three patients, another two from 16s and Bob’s patient. The occupants of the third car are fine, just shaken up, so Bob and his patient travel alone in the ambulance. _I feel kinda bad for him._ It looks to Bob like the man had just fallen asleep at the wheel and accidentally sideswiped the sedan, bumped into the rear end of another car, and then ran into the divider head on, just another unfortunate accident on the LA County freeways.

Brice stands at the bay, watching Forrester and Mac refill supplies. They both greet Bob warmly.

“Alright, Brice, what was it you wanted to tell me?” he asks.

“I’m going to be starting paramedic training in May,” Brice tells him, almost smiling, “I thought I ought to tell you. I’m going to do it.”

“So you’re the wunderkind goin’ in early. Jeff told me about ya, but he didn’t have your name. That’s pretty damn exciting, kid. Good for you. I told ya you’d do it.”

“Yes, you did, Bellingham.”

“Y’know, you’re gonna have a lotta fun. The program is great… and you’re gonna do great. I get the feelin’ you’re gonna blow us all away,” Bob says warmly.

Even though Brice ducks his head, Bob can see the pink tinge in his cheeks, the barely there smile that Bob instinctively knows is a sign Brice is delighted. He’s good at reading people in that way, knows when someone is happy or sad or afraid no matter how well they hide it.

“Here, Brice, lemme give ya my phone number,” Bob says, “This way you can call me if ya have any questions about paramedic training, ‘kay?”

“I’m sure you’ll hear from me, Bellingham. Thank you.”

“No problem, kid. Like I said, you’re gonna blow us all away. See ya around.”

Brice is then ushered away by his partner who’d been standing by, leading him out to the engine. _He’s a good kid. I’m happy for him._ He isn’t quite sure why he gave the young lineman his phone number, not when he has other paramedics he’s close with, but it just felt right for some reason.

“Didn’t know you knew Brice,” Mac says.

“Oh, I’ve met him once or twice. Guess if I worked with him on a run with you fellas I never realized it,” Bob replies, “Seems like a good kid. Definitely a smart kid.”

“I’ll agree with ya there. Brice is definitely smart… pretty weird, though. Y’know, he was askin’ me and Pete questions about even we couldn’t answer? I mean, deep fuckin’ questions about paramedic medicine that I’m not even sure Brackett can answer.”

“Which is good, I guess,” Forrester adds, “Shows he’s ready to learn. I just want him to be careful. No one likes a know-it-all.”

Bob and Mac hum in response, and Bob speaks up, asking, “So, how are your airlift patients?”

Mac answers, “They’re critical, but the doctors are hopeful they’ll make a full recovery. What happened anyway? Was the guy drunk or-?”

“The way he managed to explain it to me sounded like he fell asleep comin’ home from work. Didn’t smell like alcohol, said he didn’t take anything. ‘Course, he didn’t get away scot-free, either. Probably broke his hip, definitely a broken wrist,” Bob says, “He won’t be workin’ for a while.”

“There you are, Bob,” Washington says, coming over to the bay, “Ready to go? Oh, hey fellas…”

They have another short conversation about their patients, and then Bob and Washington head out to their squad, ready to return to 36s.

xXxXx

“Oh, Ivy! Ivy! Wait up!” a familiar voice calls behind her.

_Goddammit, there go the butterflies again._ Ivy slaps on her best nonchalant smile and turns. Rosie comes jogging up to her, grinning, slightly breathless.

“Ivy, I just wanted to see what you were doin’ tonight,” Rosie says, “I don’t really feel like cooking, so I wanted to see if maybe you wanted to go grab dinner or somethin’.”

“Yeah, that sounds nice. I’m actually going to dinner with a friend of mine as kinda a celebratory thing, and you’re more than welcome to join us, Rosie. The more the merrier.”

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t wanna intrude.”

“No, it’ll be fine,” Ivy says, “I’ve told him about you a little, and he wants to meet you.”

Rosie raises her eyebrows, and Ivy mentally kicks herself, backpedals, “Not, like, in a creepy way or anything like that, just- he gave me a ride and saw us talking an-and me and you are good friends, so it’s only natural I talk about you here and there.”

“Just didn’t know you had a boyfriend, is all.”

“He’s not my boyfriend. Brice is really, honestly just my friend. I promise.”

She almost winces upon hearing herself. _Christ, that sounded awful._ Rosie either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, just smiles, asks, “Okay… when’s dinner and where?”

Ivy tells her, and the two part ways, Rosie making her way out first. One of the other dispatchers, Eileen, walks up.

“Hey, Ivy, you okay?” she asks, “You look flushed… maybe sunburned or like ya have a fever. You feelin’ alright?”

“Oh, ye-yes, I’m, uh, I’m fine. Tha-Thanks, Eileen. I’ll see ya next shift,” she stammers, beating a hasty retreat out to her car.

Once she’s in the driver’s seat, the full realization of what she’s done comes crashing over her, and Ivy drops her head onto the steering wheel. _Fuck, why did I do that?_ This Rosie situation is becoming a major problem in a hurry. It’s moved beyond the schoolgirl type crush Ivy has been treating it as, and it might even be beyond infatuation. If she’s being totally honest with herself, it’s borderline terrifying. Ivy lets out a long groan before starting her car and heading home.

“There you are,” Brice says, “You’re ten minutes outside your average arrival time.”

“First of all, it’s kinda creepy that you know that. Secondly, I’m fine. I just- I was talkin’ with a couple of the other girls before I left,” she tells him, “Third, someone else will be joining us for dinner.”

As she suspected, Brice’s eyes go wide.

“Wha- What? Who?”

“Well… Rosie found me after our shift and wanted to know if I was free tonight, and I didn’t wanna turn her down but I didn’t wanna back outta our dinner so I just- I figured I should invite her to join us,” she blurts out, “I hope you don’t mind.”

“I mind a little. It was just supposed to be us, Bowens.”

“I know, I know… but I’ve talked about her, and you said you wanted to maybe meet her… and this is supposed to be a celebration. That’s no fun with just two people.”

“We have plenty of fun with just two people,” he retorts.

“Look, let’s just try it. If ya hate her, then I’ll buy ya another dinner or whatever, okay? Just… please, Brice, I’d really like to spend some time with her, too.”

A long moment passes before Brice finally says, “Alright… just this once.”

A couple hours later, they’re sitting in their favorite diner with Rosie (who Brice insists on calling Miss Jardin) and laughing like old friends.

“So, you two always call each other by your last names?” Rosie asks.

“I never claimed that we were normal, just that we were friends,” Ivy replies, “I mean, everyone’s got their little quirks. This isn’t so weird in the scheme of things.”

“Nah, I guess not. Say, neither one of you ever told me what we’re celebrating here. All I know is we’re celebrating.”

“I was accepted into the paramedic training program for the Los Angeles County Fire Department.”

“Rosie, he’s being modest. Brice here was accepted into the program early. Like, six months early, to be precise.”

Rosie smiles, “Sounds to me like modest doesn’t begin to cover it.”

“I have always felt that basic facts are best,” Brice mutters.

He takes the ribbing well, and the three of them have a lovely dinner, staying at the diner for three hours, just chatting and laughing.

“Ivy, I had a great time with you and Brice,” Rosie tells her as they say goodbye, “We should do this again sometime soon.”

“Sure, I’d like that.”

“Good. See ya next shift. It was very nice to meet you, Brice. Good luck with your training.”

“And it was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Jardin. I hope to see you again soon.”

They finish their farewells, and Ivy and Brice get into his truck.

“Bowens, are you feeling well? You appear flushed.”

Ivy manages to tear her gaze away from Rosie once she gets into her own car.

“Yeah, Brice… I feel fine… just fine…”


	8. Just Have Fun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: swearing, mentioned sexual situations

It’s only two weeks into his paramedic training, but Brice is already bored. He’s bored of lessons and readings and class time. The material they’re going over is material he’s already read a dozen times over, material he almost knows back to front. He’s tired of being one of the only ones to raise his hand to answer questions and pose them, tired of all the dirty looks it garners him. _I thought I’d left those looks in Florida._ It’s not as though he’s trying to show off. He simply believes that any question you have should be asked and a question asked must be answered.

None of the other trainees feel that way, however. After three days, Brice was the outcast once more. He’s almost troubled by the fact it doesn’t bother him as much as it should. He actually feels somewhat comforted by the familiarity. Biting back a sigh, Brice watches the other trainees gather together and discuss weekend plans and meetings for drinks, none of which include Brice. At least he’s used to it.

_Another Friday night alone._ He allows himself to slump up the stairs to his apartment, wondering if perhaps Bowens would like to spend time with him. He approaches her door, ready to knock when it flies open, nearly making him fall into it.

“Oh good. You’re here. C’mon in, babe,” Bowens tells him.

“Bowens, are you drunk?”

“Only a ‘lil. You can catch up.”

“Catch up?”

“Yeah, yeah, you can catch up real easy. Three shots oughta do it.”

“I would prefer not to drink,” he says, “I don’t enjoy-“

“Dammit, Brice, look… I am fuckin’ miserable, okay? I wanna take the edge off, and I’d really appreciate some sole- solidarity, ya dig?”

“I can be in solidarity with you without being drunk, I think.”

“But that’s not any fun. C’mon, get tipsy with me, pal. It’ll be fun.”

“That is not my idea of fun.”

“Brice, I don’t think you have an idea of fun.”

He tries to ignore the twisting in his gut at the statement and retorts, “I do have one. It just doesn’t revolve around becoming intoxicated and making a fool of myself.”

“Maybe you oughta try it once. ‘Sides, there’s nobody here but us chickens. Even if ya do make a fool of yourself, who’s gonna know but me?” she asks.

_I suppose she has a point there._ He looks her over briefly, sees her hand clutching the delicate shot glass, droplets of amber liquid still clinging to its interior. After all, Brice is feeling a bit miserable himself, and maybe he might feel a bit better if he has a couple drinks. As if she senses his thoughts, Bowens pours him a shot in her glass and passes it over, smiling faintly. Brice reaches out and takes it. The drink burns on the way down his throat, makes him pull a face.

Bowens laughs, pours him another, says, “Only two more to go, babe. Lemme get ya a chaser.”

She returns with a bottle of Coke as he takes the second shot, opening it and passing it over once he downs the third, and she says, “Alright, c’mon, one more and we can switch to wine.”

“Isn’t it bad to switch between alcohols?” Brice asks.

“Sometimes, yeah. But y’know what they say… liquor before beer, never fear. Beer before liquor, never sicker.”

“But we’re switching to wine, not beer.”

“Then I guess it’ll hafta be… liquor before wine, you’ll be fine.”

Bowens lets out a snort, clearly thinking herself hilarious. Brice does give her a smirk. They do another shot together, and then Bowens retrieves a bottle of wine.

“It’s merlot,” she says, “Drinkin’ it makes me feel like a fine, expensive lady who-who prob’ly has more than two sugar mommas takin’ care of all my finen-financial needs.”

“That’s very specific.”

“It’s just how I prefer to be.”

An hour later, they’ve both had two glasses of wine. Warmth bubbles through Brice’s body, his limbs heavy though he feels lightheaded. He took his glasses off after the first glass, the room around him blurry. The radio plays softly in the background, some top hits station Bowens likes and Brice doesn’t necessarily hate. He looks down. Bowens has taken up partial residence on his lap. Her head rests atop his thighs, making them feel even warmer than his other limbs, her golden hair spilled about her head like a halo. _That’s very poetic of me._ The warmth must have softened him. He feels loose and comfortable, far more so than he ever has in his life, far more so than he would normally feel in a situation like this. Bowens just lays on her back with her head in his lap, humming along to the music.

“Tell me, Bowens… why were- what made you so upset you wanted to drink?” he asks.

“Because, Craig- look, I’m gonna just call ya Craig now. I mean, really. We’ve known each other for two whole years. Why the fuck are we still doin’ that last name bullshit?”

“It’s just the way we’ve always been.”

“Call me Ivy.”

“What?”

“I just- I wanna hear ya call me Ivy. Ya never have,” she whines, gazing up at him, “You’re my best friend in the whole world, Craig. All I want’s for ya to say my name.”

“Will that make you happy?”

“A ‘lil.”

“Then… Then I suppose I can call you Ivy.”

She smiles lazily, and Brice smiles back, openly smiles.

“So tell me, Ivy… why is it you were you so upset earlier?” he asks again.

“Well, lemme tell ya, Craig… I am a lesbian.”

“You were upset because you’re a lesbian?”

“No. No, I like bein’ a lesbian,” she says, “There’s just a-a-a girl I really, really, really like, but she won’t- she doesn’t like me that way. Goddamn, she’s so beautiful, Craig. She’s the most beautiful girl in the whole world.”

“Is she Rosie?”

“No, it’s Rosie… Primrose Jardin. Even her name is beautiful. It’s a fuckin’ crime, honestly. Like, you saw her. You know that she’s- she looks like a-a princess or a-a goddess. Y’know, sometimes she even wears flowers in her hair when we work,” Bowens explains, her eyes glazed over with alcohol and fondness, “She said she’d bring me some once, once she figured out what would suit me. I’d like that. I wan’ her to gimme some flowers.”

Brice says nothing, unsure of what to say, He lets Bowens ( _no, Ivy. She wants me to call her Ivy_ ) continue, “That’s not all I want her to do. Like, I wanna be with her like this. I wanna sleep next to her every night. I wanna make out with her. Fuck it… I really wanna fuck her, too. I want her to fuck me. I want her to sit on my face, and I-I-I wanna give ‘er the best, most mind-blowingest orgasm she’s ever had in her life.”

“Why don’t you tell her?”

“I can’t just come out an’ tell her I wan’ her to sit on my face. That’s not appropriate for the workplace, Craig.”

“No, I s’pose it isn’t.”

They pass a few more minutes in comfortable silence until Brice asks, “Could you tell me something else? Just- Ivy, how do you know you’re in love?”

“Shit, I dunno. I just- just know. I guess… I guess I feel it in my gut, maybe? Ya just… I dunno, man, I just know. Mostly I know ‘cause I wanna be with her forever. I just feel things, like, down-there,” she explains, “Haven’t you ever been in love?”

“I don’t think so. None of that sounds familiar.”

“Huh… well, that’s okay. Ev’rybody’s different, I reckon. Ya ever do anythin’ with anyone? Like, ya ever make out or-or get handsy or fuck anyone?”

“No. I’ve never even come close to fucking anyone,” he answers, “It doesn’t seem like it would be fun. Seems very messy… very fussy.”

“Can be… but that’s where all the fun is. What about kissing?”

“No, I’ve never kissed anyone.”

“Would ya ever want to?”

“I don’t know… still sounds messy.”

“Only if ya want it to be… if ya got the right partner. All feels good with the right partner.”

“I s’pose I’ve thought about it,” Brice says slowly, “once or twice… but it almost felt like a-a thought experiment more than anything. There wasn’t an actual person I was thinking of. Of course, I’m assuming most people have a specific person in mind when they think of kissing.”

“I usually do, yeah. Is it something you’d wanna do someday?”

“I don’t know.”

‘What if ya had somebody to do it with who would-wouldn’t judge ya? Just-Just somebody who was your friend?” Ivy asks.

“Do you mean yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“But you said you’re a lesbian. Why would you want to kiss me?”

“It’d be totally platonic, babe. ‘Sides, it was just a suggestion. Don’t hafta do anything ya don’t wanna.”

Brice looks down at her. Ivy seems unaffected, just smiles up at him as if she’d asked him what he wants for dinner. It always baffles him how people can be so open with such things. Kissing has never been on his proverbial list of things to do, but he can’t deny he’s always sort of wondered what it felt like. _It could be a scientific experiment._ There isn’t any harm in a simple scientific experiment, surely. And now, with his inhibitions lowered, there is no better time to perform such an experiment.

“Is-? Would now be a good time to try?” he asks.

“I guess… I mean, we’re both kinda fucked up right now, but I won’t regret it in the morning if you won’t. After all, I don’t think we have any crazy epec- expectations about where this is going. Strictly platonic,” she replies, “I’ma need some help gettin’ up, though…”

He carefully helps her up, allows her a moment of adjustment and giggling.

“Fuck, this is so weird,” she laughs.

“We don’t have to-“

“Nah, nah, it’s cool, babe. Totally cool… just super fuckin’ weird. Never kissed a guy before.”

Brice lets out a snort, says, “Then you picked a bad one for your first.”

“No way. You’re the best. You won’t take it the wrong way. Now c’mon,” she tells him, “See, everything ya see in movies is wrong ‘cause they can’t show good makeouts. Luckily, you have an expert right here. Anyway, it’s easy. Just put your lips together and let it happen.”

“What should I-? Is there something I should do with my hands?”

“Whatever ya want. Some people like to hold the other one’s face or the back of their head or wrap their arms around the other one. Depends on what feels right.”

She’s very close. Brice can see every freckle dotting her face. Ivy reaches up and strokes one finger down his cheek, smirking, “Ya got some stubble, y’know. That’s a bit new to me.”

“I do grow it occasionally… just isn’t very visible, is all.”

“I’ll manage. Now, most important thing is you say when you wanna stop and I stop. I don’t want ya to be uncomfor’ble, got it?”

“Got it.”

Without further preface, Ivy takes Brice’s chin in her hand and leans in, pressing her lips to his. Neither moves for a long moment, save for Brice adjusting his hands, placing one awkwardly on her hip and the other on her cheek. Ivy moves her lips first, parting them, and Brice simply follows suit, not knowing what else to do. _It’s not unpleasant._ Her lips are soft and warm, one of her hands sliding around to the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair. Her tongue darts out and dances along his lip. That’s when he pulls away, suddenly uncomfortable. Unconcerned, Ivy backs away and returns her head to his lap, smiling lazily up at him.

“Not bad for your first time, babe.”

“It was… interesting. I’m not sure I found it enjoyable, however.”

“And if ya didn’t like it with an expert, ya never will. Least ya know now.”

“That’s very true, I s’pose. I know for sure.”

They fall into silence once more, just listening to the radio. The songs change. The one coming on is a bit folksy, is slow until it picks up after the first chorus, and Ivy begins to quietly sing along, slightly off-key.

“ _Did you write the book of love / And do you have faith in God above / If the Bible tells you so? / Now do you believe in rock and roll? / Can music save your mortal soul? / And can you teach me how to dance real slow?_ ”

“Ivy,” he speaks up finally, “Ivy, do you think-… do you think I’m a-a freak for never having been in love?”

He looks down at her and she up at him. A moment passes.

“Maybe a ‘lil… but only ‘cause I’m just beginnin’ to understand it, and I don’t really get it myself, but I’d like to understand it… like to understand you, Craig. ‘Sides, we’re all freaks one or way or another,” she replies, “I just think ya love differently, is all. I mean, ya love me, right?”

“Yes, I love you as my friend… but ‘m not in love with you.”

“An’ I feel much the same way about you. You’re probably my best friend in the whole world, an’ I love ya a whole lot… but ‘m not in love with ya.”

“Good. I’m glad we can agree on that.”

Brice allows himself a rare moment of tenderness and reaches down to card his fingers through Ivy’s hair, marveling at its softness. She nuzzles her head against his hand, her eyes slipping shut. It’s a quiet moment, comfortable, enjoyable. Then Ivy’s stomach grumbles loudly.

Both of them burst into laughter, the hilarity of the situation striking them both harder than usual in their tipsy state.

“Holy shit… ah… uh, fuck, yeah… we gotta eat,” Ivy says breathlessly, “I’m- I really wan’ Chinese food. Sound good?”

“Yeah… here, I’ll call it in…”

xXxXx

“Alright, gentlemen, today’s gonna be our first practical, so we’re gonna have a little help,” the instructor says, “If everyone could split up into groups of about three or four, we’ll get started in a moment.”

Brice swallows his apprehension and picks out the group with Alexander Clarkson. He can’t necessarily say he and Clarkson are friends, but Clarkson at least tolerates him. It’s a start.

“Hey, Brice, c’mon,” Clarkson tells him, “If this is gonna be a competition, we’re gonna win, that’s for sure. What do ya think we’re gonna do today?”

“I’m not sure. He wasn’t very forthcoming. It can’t be something difficult, though.”

“Probably gonna teach us how to put a bandaid on,” Farina smirks.

They end up milling about for a few minutes before the instructor speaks up again, “Alright, gentlemen, today you’re gonna learn what is probably one of the most important aspects of the job: inserting an IV. Now, we’ve got some paramedics from the first classes out of Rampart and Harbor General to help out and show you what to do.”

“Who exactly are we practicin’ on?” someone asks.

“Yourselves, of course! Alright, fellas, come on in…”

The paramedics file in, and some are familiar to Brice, men he’s seen on the job at various scenes but none he knows particularly well, until-

“Hey there, Brice!”

Bellingham comes over, smiling warmly, shakes his hand, says, “Good to see ya, kid. How’s it all goin’ here?”

“It’s going well, Bellingham. It’s good to see you again.”

He’s still smiling as he greets the other three men, and Brice knows he must be imagining that Bellingham is slightly more formal with them.

“Okay fellas, let’s get down to business. IVs are gonna be somethin’ you do all the time for a buncha reasons, and there’s a couple different IV solutions you’ll use…”

Brice listens eagerly as Bellingham goes into detail, telling them exactly which solutions doctors will tell them to use and why. He talks simply but gives good information and as much of it as possible, seeming to anticipate any questions they might have. _I wish he were teaching us all the time._

“Okay, any questions about all that?”

The other three turn to Brice.

“No. I think you’ve covered the subject well.”

“Good, then we’ll move on to placement. Basically, ya can put an IV in any vein. Ya can put ‘em in the arm, the hand, the foot, even the neck. I’ve only ever done that once, though. More often than not, you’ll be puttin’ ‘em in the crook of the arm, the forearm, or the hand. I prefer the forearm myself, close to the crook of the elbow. Now then, who wants to be my guinea pig?”

The others share a look, clearly uneasy. _They clearly don’t know Bellingham._ Brice speaks up, “I’ll do it. What do you want me to do?”

“Just gimme your arm,” he says, carefully grabbing his wrist and pulling it in, tucking it under his own arm, “Good. Now, watch closely, fellas. First, you’re gonna pick your vein. Thankfully, Brice here has good ones. Once you’ve got it, swab it good with some alcohol… get your needle ready… steady the patient’s arm… then ya just-“

Brice winces slightly as the needle pierces his skin and slips into his vein. Bellingham continues, “-and there ya have it. Usually, you’d tape it into place, but ‘cause we’re not transporting a patient, we won’t do that just now. Trick with the needle is to go slow but keep the pressure steady. Ya don’t wanna jab it in. We don’t wanna hurt the patient, okay?”

He gently removes the needle from Brice’s arm, bandaging the small hole, and sets up the next needle. Looking at them all, he smirks, asks, “So who wants to try it first?”

The four of them all share a look this time, all experiencing some measure of trepidation. After a moment, Clarkson clears his throat and says, “Brice, you should go first, seein’ as how you had it done to ya just now.”

“Then who am I going to practice on?” he asks, looking around at the other three.

He predictably has no takers, and only a moment passes before Bellingham tells him, “Here, kid, use my arm.”

“Bellingham, are you sure?”

“”Yeah, why not? Be easier to direct ya this way… and you three c’mere and watch real close ‘cause I’m only lettin’ someone stick me once, alright?”

xXxXx

Bob watches Brice settle in his seat, take a deep breath, push his glasses up his nose with a finger. He’s glad it’s Brice doing the stick on him, not that he doesn’t trust the other three, but he knows Brice, has worked with him. _I like this kid. I want him to do well._ Bob turns over his arm and rests it on the table.

“Okay now, just remember what I did, pal. Want me to talk ya through it?”

“Yes, please.”

“You got it,” Bob says calmly, “So, all we’re doin’ today is the stick. First thing you wanna do is steady my arm.”

Brice reaches out slowly and takes his wrist, the slender fingers rougher than expected as they guide his arm into place.

“Good. Now pick your vein.”

Light eyes flit behind his glasses, skimming Bob’s skin for the right spot.

“This one?”

“Yeah, that’s a great one. Remember what’s next?”

“Swab the area with alcohol.”

He picks up the swab and passes it over Bob’s skin, directly over the vein.

“Alright now, get the needle ready… steady my arm, just tuck it in a little tighter… perfect. Remember with the stick, go slow but firm… keep up your pressure…”

Bob watches the needle slip under his skin with a sharp sting and settle into his vein. For a moment, Brice just stares at the needle he placed before slowly picking up his head to look at Bob. Bob smiles at him and says, “Kid, that’s perfect. Sure ya never done this before?”

“Very sure. Bellingham, you’re certain it was okay?” he asks.

“Very certain. Here, go ahead and pull it out, same way it goes in, slow and easy… awesome, now cover it with some cotton… bandaid… perfect,” Bob tells him, then turns to the others, “There ya go, fellas. Your turn now. Two volunteers. One to stick and one to get stuck. I’ll walk ya through just like I did with Brice. Alright, Clarkson and Farina, thank you…”

His little group does very well, with none of the stifled yelps heard from some of the other groups, though Hillstrand seems a bit squeamish. _He may not make it through training._ No one’s dropped out of the program as yet, Bob’s heard, but the practicals are where you start to lose people. They realize they can’t stick someone with a needle or see too much blood or help birth a baby and they drop the training. The same thing happened in Bob’s class. The same thing’s happened in every class since. _Just the way of the world, the nature of the beast._ Looking around, he estimates between four to six won’t finish, not when they already look squeamish.

“Gentlemen, if you’re finished, we’ll take a ten minute break, but first I think Bellingham here has a couple words of advice for ya. Bob?”

He simply stands where he is and says, “Thanks, Ramos. Folks, there’s a lotta talent in this room… lotta energy, lotta drive, and I’m proud of ya. When I helped kick this program off three years ago, we had no idea if we’d succeed. We didn’t even know if we’d be legally allowed to do this work, if we could keep it goin’ even a couple of years. I think you guys are provin’ that we can keep goin’. I’m tellin’ ya now, the work’s gonna be hard and dirty and wet, just like firefightin’, and sometimes it’s gonna be thankless. Sometimes, people are gonna hate you, and they’re gonna fight you, and they’re gonna scream at you ‘cause they don’t feel you’re doin’ what you’re supposed to be doin’…

“But when it’s rewarding, goddamn is it rewarding. Has its highs and lows, just like firefightin’… where the lows are real low and the highs are real high… but you’re gonna love it. You’re not gonna picture yourself doin’ anything else, and if ya don’t feel that way, you might be in the wrong line of work, fellas. Biggest thing is just have fun. This is a fun job. That’s all I got.”

The trainees get dismissed for their break, filing into the corridor.

“Bellingham?”

Brice walks up slowly, the two of them the only ones left in the room.

“Hey, kid. Y’know, I meant what I said. Ya did a great job today.”

He ducks his head, but Bob sees the pink flush in his cheeks.

“Tha-Thank you, Bellingham. I just have a question for you. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Will we all pass this training?”

“Honestly? No, ‘cause no class has ever had everyone pass. Guys drop out for a buncha reasons, and they’re entitled to. It’s better if they drop out now, really, ‘cause then ya really know who’s dedicated.”

“What about-? Umm… what about me?” Brice asks quietly.

“Brice, you drove here from Florida to become a paramedic. Only reason you’d drop out is if ya drop dead first… and even then, I think your ghost would complete the training and become a paramedic.”

That elicits a small smile from the boy in front of him, which makes Bob feel pretty good.

“You’re gonna be great, Brice. I know it,” Bob tells him.

“I hope so. Some of the others… don’t seem to like me very much. They think I’m a ‘know-it-all’.”

“Who gives a shit about what they think? You’re gonna be okay. Just keep bein’ yourself and doin’ your job, and if they don’t like that, fuck ‘em. Simple as that, kid.”

Brice hums in response, then says, “May I ask you another question?”

“Sure, kid. Go ahead.”

“You said you were part of the first class of paramedics out of Harbor General. Who was the first of your class to graduate?”

“We all graduated together.”

“I meant technically. Whose name was called first?”

Smirking, Bob leans in and points at his badge, saying, “It was me,” and watches Brice’s eyes go wide at seeing the number: 0001, the first paramedic badge issued by the department. Brice’s arm twitched as if he would touch it but thought better of it. Bob reaches out and grips his slender shoulder, telling him quietly, “You’re gonna be great, kid. Just have fun with it, okay?”

He heads out of the room, Brice close behind him, but Brice heads to the water fountain and Bob heads out of Rampart. _They’re gonna do well._ Getting into his car, Bob feels strangely warm and happy, and he wishes he knew why. Perhaps he’ll call Brice later this week to see how he’s doing. The thought makes him feel even better. He wishes he knew why.


	9. Death Doesn't Discriminate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: OC character death (mentioned), strong language.
> 
> Related to [chapters 11 and 12](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4278609/chapters/10993133) in 'Oh, There You Are'

Near the end of paramedic training, the trainees spend a few days a week running with a squad, and Brice has never had more fun. He loves the adrenaline and the diversity of work and continuous learning. It’s the perfect profession for him, just as he knew it would be. And honestly, even if no one likes him and everyone thinks him a know-it-all and calls him names, he’s happier than he’s ever been except those first few days when he left Florida. He feels excited and free, just as he did back then.

Brice gets bounced around to different stations during his practical shifts, no one apparently wanting him for more than a shift or two, but he’s okay with it. He gets to experience different people and different places all throughout his time, which is more than the others could say. They keep going to the same two or three stations all the time, the same places. _They’re not getting any variety._

In this way, Brice finally feels he’s come into his own. He’s become less and less concerned with what others think of him personally. As long as they consider him good at his job, that’s all that matters to him. So, he becomes good at his job. He asks every question he can think of and tries to help the others and reads all he can find related to medicine and paramedic medicine. He knows it annoys everyone, but he won’t be untrue to himself anymore, not when he’s finally free in a way he’s never been before. Brice only wishes he could be placed with Bellingham, but the schedules never match.

Bellingham is the only one who doesn’t seem annoyed by his behavior, although that may be because Bellingham has not spent extensive time with him as yet. _He even seems to like me… and I’m not sure I want that changed._ It may be better they never work together at all, if only to preserve their situation.

Even the morning is hot as Brice heads into Rampart, though he still goes into the small breakroom to get a cup of black coffee, taking it with him into the classroom. As usual, no one speaks to him as he takes up his seat by the window in the second row. Clarkson still sits by him, remains somewhat friendly with him, says hello and asks what they’ll be doing that day with a smirk. Today is no different with his, “What’s on our agenda today, Brice?”

“Our rotation is maternity today.”

“Oh, that’ll be interesting, for sure.”

It is indeed very interesting. Brice can’t necessarily say it’s an enjoyable lesson, but he enjoys learning about it. They see a couple births, get a tour of the maternity ward, learn how to handle a variety of issues that could arise during a birth. It’s fascinating. Brice never knew exactly how much could go wrong during childbirth despite it being a relatively simple procedure.

 _But I remember the farms back home._ He remembers how sometimes a cow would die of complications during birth, how Mr. Sweeting once had to take his shirt off and stick his arm in to reposition a calf, how a goat once delivered a dead kid and then died of an infection herself a couple days later. He remembers Mrs. Blackburn who was pregnant with triplets and they all lived, Mrs. Ken who was pregnant with twins and they both died, Mrs. Holden who had one baby who just died in his cradle one night with no explanation, Mrs. Cotton who had eight children who all grew up healthy and fine. There was no rhyme or reason behind any of it, and they were all a result of the same process.

Today, they only experience life, and Brice tries to remember that, that ninety-nine times out of a hundred everything goes right, and mother and baby usually live. _Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, we won’t have much to do._ The day seems to fly by. Before he even realizes it, it’s time for them all to go home, all crowding into the locker room and break room.

“Where ya goin’, Brice?” Clarkson asks.

“Down to emergency. I have a question for Nurse McCall. I’ll see you in a couple of days, Clarkson.”

Clarkson bids him farewell, and Brice makes his way down to the emergency section, hoping Nurse McCall will be available. It’s not a pressing question, but he’d prefer to have it answered. He opens the door from the stairwell and halts in his tracks, like slamming on the brakes, when he sees the waiting room.

Eleven firemen sit in the waiting area, all somber, the public giving them a wide berth. Brice only recognizes the two paramedics from 45s, Gallagher and Wall, and assumes the other men around them are from 45s, also. The crew from 51s he does know, having worked with them a few times before, tries to remember all their names. The paramedics are DeSoto and Gage, the linemen Lopez and Kelly, then Captain Stanley and the engineer, Stoker. _It must be a man from 45s in the treatment room… so why does Stoker look so upset?_ The engineer is clearly the most miserable one out of the whole group. He must be close friends with the man from 45s.

Brice effectively hides in the doorway, just watching, curious to see what will happen. After a few minutes, the door to the one treatment room opens, Dr. Brackett stepping out. Stoker rises to speak with him, Lopez and Gage close by him. Brackett speaks, says something Brice cannot hear, says it with a grim expression, says something that almost buckles Stoker’s knees. Stoker’s body shifts as though he’s been punched in the chest, visibly almost drops and maybe would have if not for Lopez holding him up. Soon after, Stoker is ushered into Brackett’s office, Lopez following a couple minutes later.

“You okay, Brice?”

He jumps like a rabbit, swallowing a yelp. He didn’t see Nurse McCall walk up.

“I-I’m fine, Nurse McCall. Just-… what happened?” he asks.

“Oh, a fireman had a heart attack out on a run,” she answers quietly, “Pretty much died on the scene.”

“Who was it?”

“Bobby Lee Starrett. Real shame. He was a real nice guy.”

Brice casts his gaze back toward the sad group, feeling a small stab in his gut, murmurs, “I worked with him,” but goes no closer. He didn’t work with him that much.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, just… I agree, Nurse McCall. Captain Starrett was very nice.”

“You worked with him?”

“Only a few times. He subbed as engineer at 14s twice, I believe, and once I subbed at 68s where he was stationed. I liked him,” Brice says.

“We all did, Brice. Oh, was there something you needed?” she asks.

Looking back, he realizes he’s forgotten his question.

“Umm, no. I was just- just leaving. Have a good evening, Nurse McCall.”

He takes one last look at the somber group and leaves Rampart. There’s an odd feeling in his chest. When he gets home, he tells Ivy he doesn’t feel well and doesn’t want to hang out tonight. Truthfully, he doesn’t know what or how he feels. If he can just sit alone for a bit, maybe he can figure it out.

xXxXx

Bob’s phone rings in the evening, just as he finishes dinner.

“Hello, this is Bob Bellingham.”

“ _Hey, Bob, this is Mark Wall from 45s._ ”

“Hey, Mark, what’s up?”

“ _I just-… I been callin’ people all evening… See, uh… Bobby Starrett died._ ”

Bob sits straight up, chest tightening.

“What? He-? How? When?”

“ _We were on a run today on the freeway with 51s. Starrett was subbin’ for our captain. He was fine the whole time, smilin’ and laughin’ and shit, and during cleanup he just-… He grabbed at his chest and dropped down dead of a heart attack, right there on the asphalt._ ”

“Jesus… I mean- I only talked to him a couple days ago.”

“ _Yeah, I know. It’s- It’s real fucked up, Bob. Real fucked up… ‘specially since his friend saw him die. Stoker at 51s… guess they were good friends from way back._ ”

“Starrett was at 69s when Stoker started there, I think.”

“ _Yeah… Yeah, anyway, I just wanted to let you know. Knew ya knew Starrett, so… yeah. You’ll hear more about the funeral soon, I reckon._ ”

They bid each other farewell, and Bob drops his head into his hands with a sigh and a swear. _This never gets easier. Never._ Bob’s buried a few friends over the years. None of them have been incredibly close, but they were close enough that he mourned them. Starrett, though… He and Starrett had actually been fairly close, had worked together a number of times over their years in the department. Bob swallows against the lump in his throat. They tend to go quickly in the fire service, no lingering deaths usually, no warnings. Just death. He swallows again.

He goes to Easter’s house the next day, needing the comfort of family.

“That’s a shame,” she says, “I met him once. He was a nice fella.”

“He was the best. I’m sure I never met a better man in all my life. He was kind and-and gentle and friendly and- Goddammit, Terrie, he was so good.”

There’s a lump in his throat and tears burning in his eyes. With a soft noise, Easter pulls him into a hug, holding him tight. He keeps down most of his emotions, only lets out a few tears. As much as he loves his sister, he doesn’t want to completely break down here.

“Will you be goin’ to the funeral, Bobby?” she asks quietly.

“Yeah, of course. I’m gonna hafta take the day off, probably. He was in charge of B-shift, so they won’t wanna have it during B-shift… and Stoker’s on A-shift… so most likely they’ll have it on a C-shift day. I’m sure someone can take over for me for a day,” he replies, wiping at his face.

“Just make sure ya have a friend with ya. I don’t want ya alone at a time like that. Wouldn’t be right for ya to be alone.”

It’s been a long time since Bob wore his dress uniform, but he dons it today, in the heat of August. _Fits a little tighter than last time… not bad, though._ The church is packed with people, enough that Bob is guaranteed to know almost every fireman there and for them to all know each other. He sees one fireman standing alone at the back of the church, though, not speaking to anyone. Instinctively, Bob goes to him. _No one should be here alone today._

“Hey there, Brice.”

“Hello, Bellingham. I didn’t expect to see you here today since you work C-shift.”

“I was, uh, I was good friends with Starrett. I needed to be here. What brings you here?” Bob asks.

“I worked with him three times… which doesn’t seem like much, but it was enough for me to know he was a good man. Also, I was asked by my shift to attend in their honor, since I have the day off today… Rather, I could afford to take off a day of practical.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re so far ahead,” Bob smiles, lets it fade, “C’mon, kid, let’s go find a seat.”

They’re not too close to the front nor too far back. Bob settles in, knowing the first few speeches would be chiefs’ speeches, spattered with sentiment but not exactly heartwarming. They’re all ‘duty’ and ‘sacrifice’ and ‘loyalty’ and ‘brotherhood’, everything that a chief’s speech ever is. Bob’s probably heard a hundred of them at every type of event in the department. Brice fidgets next to him, not a great deal but enough that Bob notices. He can’t fault him. Bob fidgeted all through his first department funeral, too.

Stoker’s speech is nice, though the sign language is a surprise. _Should have him teach me some of that._ Brice isn’t looking up, and Bob refrains from nudging him. It’s not imperative he look, after all. Bob had almost forgotten Starrett’s son is deaf, but he never knew about Stoker’s parents, not that it matters. This is a much better speech than the ones before.

Funerals are really the only time Bob considers his mortality, wonders what his own funeral will be like. He doesn’t have any children of his own, but all his nieces and nephews would be the crying children, his sisters the somber yet graceful women, his brother and in-laws the men trying to be strong. He likes to think he would have a packed house, a large number of friends cultivated over the years. Plenty of chiefs would want to preside over the funeral of LA County’s first paramedic. That’s what he likes to think, anyway. _The service can be somber, but there better be a great party afterwards._ He’s going to make provisions for an open bar in his will.

At the wake, Bob kind of floats around, just talking to whoever he runs into… and Brice is never far behind, like a nervous shadow. Bob just takes to introducing him to everyone.

“Take him under your wing there, Bob?” Roy DeSoto asks.

“In a way. He’s doin’ his paramedic training, and I just kinda made myself available for questions and stuff like that,” Bob explains, “He’s doin’ a great job.”

“Well, Brice, you’ve got a great mentor here,” Roy says, “Y’know, Bob here is the one who let me do my first IV stick on him.”

“It was the same for me,” Brice says.

“I just don’t mind gettin’ stuck, is all. Doesn’t hurt as bad as everyone thinks… Anyway, how are ya, Roy? Heard you were there.”

“Yeah… Yeah, me and Johnny were packin’ up, and we just heard Mike scream… Turned around and saw Starrett on the ground. Pretty sure he was dead when we got to him, but I’ll be damned if we didn’t try our hardest. Pretty jarring… Scary to think it can happen that fast.”

“What about Mike? He holdin’ up okay?” Bob asks.

“As well as he can be, I guess. He was a wreck the day it happened, couldn’t go back to work. Thankfully, he’s pretty close with one of the other guys on our shift, Marco… they split an apartment. Marco’s been keepin’ an eye on him,” Roy answers quietly, “We all have.”

“That’s good… good. Fella shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.”

“Agreed… speakin’ of that, I’m gonna go find Johnny. I promised him he could stay with me and Joanne. You know how he gets, Bob. I’ll see ya around.”

He watches Roy go corral his partner, make their goodbyes, and head out. _Nope. No one oughta be alone._ Turning to Brice, he says, “Well, I’m gonna head out, too, I think. You’re more than welcome to join me for a drink and some food.”

“Umm… no thank you, Bellingham. I was just planning on going home. I have some studying to do.”

“You sure? I could always help ya study some. Give ya some inside information.”

“No thank you. I prefer to study alone. I appreciate the offer, though.”

“Don’t worry about it, kid. Hey, I’ll see ya around.”

Bob doesn’t push the issue. He’s never been like that. He just hopes the kid will be okay when all is said and done.

xXxXx

Brice is thankful to leave. He’s always uncomfortable in situations like this, with everyone’s emotions swirling around and choking the room, where he’s reminded too forcefully of his own mortality and the mortality of others. It only furthers his resolve to keep from becoming too close to other people. He doesn’t want to be the one crying in front of everyone. _I’ve learned that lesson enough times._

He spends the next couple of weeks in complete solitude except for training, not even spending time with Ivy. Studying for his final exams is the most important thing right now. He needs to succeed. There are people he can’t let down. He’s studying hazmat situations when someone pounds on his door, making him jump.

“Brice! Brice, I’ve had enough! Open this door or I’ll do it myself!”

He’s never seen Ivy look this angry.

“Oh, you’re actually acknowledging my existence today. How blessed I am,” she snarks as she steps into his apartment, “I know you wanna study, but all work and no play makes Craig a dull boy… and makes Ivy an angry girl.”

“I’ll explain it all later, Ivy. I just have to study for this exam-“

“Bullshit. You know that material backwards and forwards and backwards again and in German and Spanish and probably in Chinese, too. Just tell me what I did to piss you off, and we’ll handle this like adults, okay?”

“You-? You think you did something to upset me?”

“Well, what else am I supposed to think? Ya just come home one day, brush me off, and then barely say three words to me over two weeks!” she tells him.

“There’s- It’s nothing you’ve done, Ivy. I promise.”

“Then what is it? What happened? Nothin’ happened to you, did it?”

“No, I’m fine. It was… Something happened in the department,” he says.

“Was it-? Is it about that fireman that died?”

“Yes.”

“We heard about it over at our department, too. I figured you were at the funeral when I saw you in your dress uniform,” she says, “You okay? You wanna talk about it at all?”

Brice shrugs, explains, “There isn’t much to say. Starrett was a good man and a good fireman, and then one Tuesday in August, he dropped dead of a heart attack. I saw them… at the hospital… eleven firemen all sitting in the waiting area, quiet and somber.”

“Did you know Starrett well?”

“Not particularly. I worked with him a few times. Just-… He was kind.”

“Yeah, that’s always hard, when they’re kind. Feels that way in the police department, too. That’s just how it goes sometimes. People can just drop dead. You know that, Craig.”

“Yes, but they’re just not usually people I know,” he replies.

He shies away from telling her the entire truth. She doesn’t need to know the funeral terrified him. There are few people in this world he can honestly say he likes, and to realize any of them could drop dead at any minute on any given day is frightening. He often wants to isolate himself, feels it would be so much better to be alone so he would never have to have anyone he cares enough about to lose. At least he knows what it feels like to be alone, and he’s always been told the devil you know is better than the one you don’t.

Ivy steps closer to him, saying, “C’mon, Craig, take a ‘lil break. Let’s have some dinner and get caught up from the last couple weeks, huh?”

Brice agrees, and he realizes with a start that he isn’t sure he could go back to being completely alone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be switching update days to Thursdays, starting with the next update. Thursdays are my day off, so it only makes sense for me to update on a day when I haven't been out of the house for 11 hours :)


	10. Make the Yuletide Gay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Related to [chapter 13](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4278609/chapters/11224744) of 'Oh, There You Are'
> 
> Warnings: some foul language

“Well, hello there, Miss Bowens,” a sly voice says.

Looking up, Ivy smirks at the two policemen, saying, “Officers Reed and Malloy. What sorta trouble are the two of you in today?”

Malloy’s green eyes go wide, the best imitation of innocence his round freckled face can provide, and he feigns hurt, saying, “Us? In trouble?”

“Yes, the two of you in trouble. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

“We just need a plate run,” Reed tells her.

“What for?”

“Saw it today a couple times. It’s a white, two-door Pontiac. It was in a couple shady spots today, but there was nothin’ we could stop it for.”

“Yeah, hand it over. I got a minute. Why didn’t ya call it in earlier?” she asks.

“Seemed a ‘lil busy earlier, and he wasn’t doing anything outwardly wrong,” Malloy replies, “Figured we could just come back and run the plate and see what’s up.”

“That’s fair. Alright, let’s punch this in…” she explains, fingers typing quickly as she calls up the information, “Umm… what kinda car did ya say?”

“A white, two-door Pontiac. Why?” Reed asks.

“Because those plates belong on a blue Ford station wagon,” she says, handing over the slip.

Malloy heaves a sigh, says, “Great… Guess we’ll have to track that fella down when we get back out. Anyway, I wanted to ask you somethin’, Ivy.”

“I will not go on a date with you.”

“No, I imagine you wouldn’t, not with that lovestruck look that was on your face when we came in just now.”

“Reed, did I really look lovestruck?”

“Why are ya askin’ him?”

“Because if anyone knows what lovestruck looks like, it’s Jim Reed, ‘cause he has to see it on you every other shift,” she retorts.

Reed gives a quiet snort, tells her, “Yeah, ya looked a little lovestruck.”

“Well… maybe I am.”

“You gonna tell us about the lucky fella?” Malloy asks.

“No, ‘cause it’s none of your business,” she says, “Why don’t you two go back to chasin’ bad guys, huh? Leave us dispatchers alone?”

They bid her farewell, and she’s called back in to take some more calls. Near the end of her day shift, Rosie comes over, smiling and beautiful as ever, a red carnation tucked into her hair.

“Hey, Ivy. How’s your shift goin’ today?” she asks warmly.

“Oh, same old, same old. Just another day shift in Los Angeles.”

“I hear that… Say, what are you doin’ on Christmas?”

“Working. I switched with Luisa so she could have off to be with her kids. I’ll be on that mid-shift, but I’ll have off on New Year’s,” Ivy explains.

“You’re not doin’ anything else, though?”

“Just sleepin’ in.”

“Well… if you wanted… you could come spend part of the day with me at my family’s. We have a big late breakfast and just chill all afternoon while dinner cooks.”

“Oh, I-I-I couldn’t. I couldn’t impose-“

“It’s not imposing,” Rosie smiles, coming to sit next to her, “Especially since you won’t be doin’ anything with your family. Besides, I’d love to have you there. It’d make me happy.”

They’re like magic words, because anything that makes Rosie happy makes Ivy happy, too.

“Then I’d love to be there, Rosie. Just say when and where.”

“Okay! I’ll give you a call in a couple days to get you updated. Oh, thank you so much!”

Rosie gives her a quick hug and returns to her station, leaving Ivy feeling warm and tingly and lightheaded. _Fuck, I got it bad._ She doesn’t know how she manages to get through the end of her shift without combusting from sheer joy.

Ivy and Rosie have gone out a couple of times, though Ivy wouldn’t call them dates. Both parties have to be aware of it being a date for it to be called a date. _Besides, Rosie doesn’t like me that way._ Ivy’s done a lot of thinking, and even if she can never be loved by Rosie the way she’d like, she won’t let it interfere with their friendship. As long as Rosie stays in her life, she’ll be okay.

“You look inordinately happy,” Craig tells her when she comes home.

“I am,” she grins, “Rosie invited me to spend time with her family on Christmas.”

“I thought you were working on Christmas. Did you not trade shifts with someone?”

“Yeah, but I work mid-shift, which is three to eleven, so she invited me over for, like, their brunch thing they do in the afternoon. I didn’t even prompt her. She came and asked me! Ugh, this is so amazing, Craig… Y’know, I had a dream like this once.”

“I won’t ask how it ended.”

“Oh, you know how it ended.”

Craig smiles faintly, something which may as well be a grin for him, and passes Ivy a soda from his fridge. They sit together on the couch, and Ivy asks, “What are you doin’ for Christmas, Craig?”

“I plan on working. I picked up a shift at Station 51 working for DeSoto. He has children, so he wanted to spend the holiday with them.”

“Then we’ll both be workin’. What about New Year’s?”

“I’m scheduled for New Year’s.”

“Aw, I was hopin’ we could go out or somethin’. Have some fun.”

“Perhaps you’ll be able to go out and have some fun with Rosie,” Craig smirks.

“We can only hope, my friend… We can only hope.”

xXxXx

“I really appreciate ya comin’ over to help with wrappin’ Christmas presents, Bobby,” Easter says, applying one more piece of tape to the box, “Sure makes it go faster.”

“Anything to help, sis. ‘Sides, a lotta them are from me anyway. Mostly it’s an excuse to come over and use your wrappin’ paper so I don’t hafta buy any.”

She just laughs, mutters, “Oh, how very kind of you,” and starts a new box. These are the kinds of moments Bob enjoys best, ones that are quiet and domestic and far removed from his job. He just gets to be Uncle Bobby and spoil all his nieces and nephews. _They can have the kinda things we never did, even at Christmas._ They all used to get socks and clothes and shoes for the holiday, maybe some candy if they were lucky, and a dinner only slightly more extravagant than usual. The love was what really mattered, though. _And they always managed to find us each a book somehow._

So he doesn’t want to spoil them too much. Each of the seventeen kids gets a book with a personalized note in the front, each book thoughtfully chosen. He hopes they like the stories, but even if they don’t the notes are nice, he supposes. It’s just a pleasant passage of time for now, the two siblings simply making small talk as they wrap the gifts.

“Hey, Bobby, you off on Christmas this year? You should be, right?” Easter asks.

For a moment, Bob doesn’t answer, and that’s enough of an answer for Easter. She sighs, says, “Dammit, you promised to take off!”

“I was goin’ to Terrie, I really was… but then Mason from 45s asked if I would work for him ‘cause he’s got kids of his own, just had a baby girl in June… just- how could I say no?”

“Tell him no. You got plans.”

“C’mon, Terrie, I’m a single guy. I can’t just tell him no, he can’t spend Christmas with his kids,” Bob says quietly.

“He knew what he signed up for when he became a fireman, just the same as you. You got family, too. There’s no reason you gotta miss Christmases and Easters and birthdays and all kinds of events just so no else does. It’s just like Mama always told us, that we shouldn’t set ourselves on fire to keep someone else warm.”

 _Yes, and she told us that often. It’s the one piece of advice I have the hardest time listening to._ He sighs quietly, says, “Next year… I’ll try to get off next year. This year, I’ll come over on Christmas Eve. The kids can open their books from me.”

“You do this every year, though,” she tells him.

“I know… but there’s a reason for it, at least. I get double-time for holidays. I put a lotta that towards college funds for the kids, y’know. It’s useful.”

“And I know that, but-… ugh, sometimes we just wanna see you here.”

“I will be here… just not this year.”

“Yeah… you say that every year.”

He feels bad. He really does, but he just doesn’t have it in him to tell someone no when they have kids of their own. Justifying his own day off wouldn’t be hard, of course. Everyone has family and plans during the holidays, but it’s just different when a man has kids of his own. _And Mason has a new baby._ Bob especially can’t tell someone with a new baby no.

It won’t be awful. Bob likes the guys at 45s, and he doesn’t really mind working on Christmas. The kids are used to seeing him on Christmas Eve anyway, still think it’s fun to open a present the night before. Plus, there are always crazy runs on the big holidays, so he’s always guaranteed to have a good story when all is said and done, and everyone loves a good story. The only thing he isn’t looking forward to is the back-to-back shifts now he’s switched to B-shift. He isn’t old, but doubles sure make him feel that way.

He sighs as he steps into his apartment. _I need to be careful, or eventually, Terrie’s gonna get so pissed at me, I’ll be spendin’ all my holidays here or at work._ He’ll be sure to have off next year.

Bob walks into 45s on Christmas morning, actually feeling pretty good. The kids all loved their books, a couple of them even beginning to read them that night, and Easter wasn’t too grumpy with him. The other paramedic is a young man with reddish-brown hair and a build like a fireplug.

“Hi, how are ya?” he greets Bob, “I’m Pettit, Rob Pettit.”

“And I’m Bob Bellingham. Good to meet ya, Rob.”

“Here, follow me. I’ll show ya around. Merry Christmas, by the way…”

Everyone is very friendly, treating him like a regular member of the crew.

“It was real good of you to pick up for Mason,” Pettit says after a couple of hours, while they set up the dorm, “He’s wild about those ‘lil girls of his. Never shuts up about ‘em.”

“Well, that’s parents. I got five siblings, and they’re the same way about their kids. Hell, I’m like that sometimes, too.”

“You don’t have any kids, though.”

“No, but my nieces and nephews are like my kids,” he explains, “I try to be at all the events I can be, but they understand Uncle Bobby’s a fireman and can’t always come to stuff. They like to tell everyone I’m a fireman, too… and now they tell everyone I’m a paramedic.”

“Kids are like that. Guess I’m like that with my nephews myself.”

The morning is fairly slow, just a lot of calls for little things like whacked thumbs and small kitchen fires. A few are interesting, however. In the early afternoon, Bob and Pettit are called to a house for a burn injury.

“Alright, what seems to be the problem?” Bob asks.

“It’s stupid,” the patient explains, “I was just doing some crafts with the kids, making some Christmas ornaments, and the glue gun just- oh, I don’t know what happened. I didn’t want Max to call you, but he insisted. It’s just a burn.”

“Well, let’s have a look at it and see who was right, huh? Just let me handle it… I don’t wanna hurt ya but I gotta look, okay? That’s it…”

The woman’s whole palm is covered with a second-degree burn, the skin having already started blistering… at least, it looked like it had blistered. The skin also has a greasy shine to it.

“Ma’am, did you do any home treatments before we got here?”

“Certainly. I ran it under cold water, and then my mother always told me to put butter on a burn, and if it blisters, pop the blisters,” she tells Bob calmly.

“Well, I hate to tell ya this, but your mother wasn’t quite right about all that. Butter actually traps the heat in the burn and can make it worse, and poppin’ the blisters can lead to infection. What I’m gonna do is take ya in the kitchen there so we can wash the butter off and soak that burn in some cool water, okay?” Bob explains, “That’ll get some of that heat out so it starts to feel a ‘lil better. Then we’ll wrap it up real loose, okay?”

She takes it all like a trooper, barely wincing or complaining even though Bob knows it must hurt like hell. Once her hand is wrapped, Pettit tells her, “Now, you don’t hafta come with us to the hospital now, but we recommend you do, just to cut down on possible complications, like infections or excessive scar tissue. If you choose not to come with us now, I’m gonna highly suggest you go as soon as possible, alright?”

“I think I’ll be alright ‘til tomorrow, and I’ll go first thing in the morning, I promise.”

“Okay. Then I’ll give ya some instructions for the burn for the rest of the day and a paper to sign sayin’ you don’t wanna go to the hospital with us. One second…”

Back in the squad, Bob says, “Well, that was an easy run, at least.”

“Yup, she was a champ, that’s for sure. Full of home remedies, though.”

“At least it was simple to fix those remedies. I’ve seen way crazier shit people are convinced works just fine. Kerosene… people will do everything with that. They’ll put it anywhere, and I mean anywhere.”

“Yeah, I hear that. Hopefully, we don’t have anything too crazy today,” Pettit says.

One of the linemen, Maclin, makes dinner, putting out a pretty good spread for 45s.

“This looks great, Maclin,” the captain says, “Almost looks better’n my wife’s.”

“I wouldn’t say that too loud. Ya don’t wanna get in trouble, Cap.”

“I did say almost. Alright, c’mon, fellas, let’s dig in…”

They fall into a cheerful conversation about Christmas and family, and Bob happily joins in, all laughing and having a good time. Bob still feels a little guilty about not being with his family, but he supposes since he considers the department his family, too, it really isn’t so bad.

xXxXx

“ _Squad 51, respond with Squad 45… family dispute with injuries. Police are on scene…_ ”

Brice follows Gage out to the squad, feeling slightly out of place still. Stoker has been attempting to make him feel welcome, and has Lopez to an extent, but Gage has been fairly short with him the whole shift. _At least I’m used to it._ The longest he’s been on any one shift at any one station has been two and a half weeks. They use him as a sort of permanent replacement for the department, and while he can’t necessarily complain because it’s given him a lot of experience, he wonders when they’ll let him settle into a station. Someone will have to work with him eventually, that’s the just the way it is. _Someone will want to work with me eventually… I hope._

For the moment, he focuses on the call. There are three police cars outside the small house along with 45s, and a number of people are scattered around the front yard, some in handcuffs. Gage and Brice get their gear and move in, directed by a police officer to a young woman and a pair of young men.

“What happened?” Gage asks the officer.

“Family fight. From what I can gather, there are a couple family members who are no longer welcome at the house, as well as a couple outside the family. Biggest issue seems to be they don’t like the girl’s boyfriend, so that’s why she’s upset.”

“Alright… uh, Brice, you take the girl, and I’ll handle these two fellas…”

The girl is about sixteen and nearly hysterical, taking in hiccupping breaths that do nothing to control her tears. Brice approaches her carefully, asking, “May I come over?” and kneeling in front of her when she nods.

“My name is Brice. I’m a paramedic with the fire department. I just want to look you over and make sure you aren’t hurt, is that all right?”

“Ye-Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“Lucy.”

“Okay, Lucy, are you hurting anywhere?” he asks gently.

“Umm… my-my arm hurts a little. It got twisted.”

“Anywhere else?”

“No.”

“Alright… Now, I’m just going to check your arm and make sure everything is alright, that no severe damage has been done. Is that okay?”

“Yeah… Yeah, that’s fine.”

He carefully takes her arm and palpates it, asking, “What happened tonight, Lucy?”

“I told him not to come,” she whines, “Mom and Dad don’t like Stevie, say he’s too old for me and stuff like that, so when he-he said he wanted to come over for Christmas dinner, I-I-I told him not to. But he insisted. He’s, umm… He’s good friends with my cousin who got kicked out an-and they came together and Daddy started yelling and they started fighting-“

Lucy starts crying again, and Brice barely has time to try and calm her down when he hears, “What the fuck are ya doin’ to her? Don’t touch her!” from behind. Gage shouts, too, tells the man to sit back down and wait, but it’s to no avail. Brice is shoved from behind. Lucy starts yelling, Stevie to back down and leave Brice alone.

“Sir, I am a paramedic. I am simply doing my job and-“

“You hurt her!”

“I did not. I only asked about-“

 _This is unexpected._ Stevie throws a punch that Brice barely avoids the worst of, though it still catches him, splitting his lip and knocking him back. The young man jumps on him. Brice can smell the alcohol on his breath, and he’s able to fend off further blows with only minor difficulty until Gage comes to his aid. An officer isn’t far behind, taking Stevie away and handcuffing him. Brice sits up, gently checking his busted lip while Gage calms the girl.

“Brice, what the hell did you do?” Gage asks.

“I didn’t do anything. I was simply checking the patient and-“

“-and she started freakin’ out! What’d you say to her?”

“Nothing! I only asked what happened, and when she reached a certain point in the story, she became upset. That upset her boyfriend who-“

“Yeah, who started swingin’. I know. Brice- I- Look, just-… Just shut the hell up from now on, okay? It’ll keep ya from gettin’ beat up,” Gage tells him, “Keep me from gettin’ beat up, too…”

The retort is on the tip of Brice’s tongue, but he swallows it down. It won’t do to get into another argument, especially since Gage is partially right. He could have done more to defuse the situation. _It’s a lesson, just another lesson._ With a sigh, Brice goes to the drug box and grabs a piece of gauze, holding it to his lip.

“No blood on the uniform. That’s good.”

Brice looks up.

“Hello, Bellingham. What are you doing here?”

“Workin’. I’m on B-shift now, but I picked up a shift for Mason. You pickin’ up for Roy?” he asks.

“Yes. DeSoto is spending the holiday with his family. Gage is less than thrilled.”

“He’ll get over it. Hey, lemme see your lip, kid…” Bellingham says, gently taking Brice’s chin in hand, “Not bad. That’ll heal in a couple days. Be as good as new. Say, how’s-“

“Bob, we gotta get goin’!”

“Welp, see ya later, Brice. Take care of that lip, okay?”

Brice watches him jog off to his squad, slightly dreading his own ride back to 51s with Gage. Their trip is silent but tense, and Brice easily slinks into the locker room with no one noticing him, or so he thought. He leans in to look at his lip in the mirror.

“What happened, Brice?”

Stoker comes into the locker room, concern on his face. Brice tells him simply, “There was a family dispute. We were dispatched to it.”

“I know that much. What happened to you?”

“It was already a heated situation when we arrived to back up 45s, and this family, the McClellans, were not pleased by our presence, nor that of the police,” Brice explains, poking at his lip once more, “I was treating a young lady of about sixteen when her boyfriend, who was nineteen and burly, apparently took exception to my touching her to administer treatment and hit me. He’s currently in jail for assault.”

 _Though not for assaulting me._ Brice had declined to press charges on the young man, knowing he already had a variety of charges awaiting him. Stepping back, he starts to fix his shirt, smoothing out all the wrinkles and ensuring Bellingham was right about the blood. Seeing the question in Stoker’s face, he adds, “Gage seems to think I said something to provoke the attack and has asked me to refrain from speaking in the future.”

“I don’t imagine he did so politely,” Stoker comments.

“His request was polite given the situation. He did help pull the man off me, as a matter of fact, received some hits in the process. I didn’t necessarily require the help, but it was appreciated.”

“That’s good. I wouldn’t wanna have to tell Johnny off for bein’ rude.”

Brice shrugs, “Again, such an action would be unnecessary but appreciated. I’m quite used to hearing such admonishments. I’ve been hearing them since childhood.”

There’s the merest of pauses, confusion and maybe sadness flashing across Stoker’s face, then he says, “You’ve got a good story, at least, Brice. Can’t beat that… a good story.”

Brice says nothing, only because he’s unsure of what to say. He simply turns to fix his uniform once more, unused to such kindness.

“Anyway,” Stoker says after a moment, “Lights out in thirty minutes. Lemme know if you need anything.”

He leaves before Brice can find the words to thank him, so he simply starts getting ready for bed before everyone else comes in. Station 51 feels like a family, and Brice feels like an interloper, a seventh wheel, just as he does in every station he’s been sent to. He’s heard what they all whisper behind his back when they think he can’t hear, heard the muttered ‘freak’ and ‘asshole’ and ‘retard’ and ‘stuck up motherfucker’ at every station, heard the same insults he’s heard his whole life in Florida. Here, at least, the work consoles him, that and the few people who treat him with decency. In the dorm, no one bats an eyelash at him being there first, and no one wishes him a goodnight. He pretends it doesn’t hurt.

xXxXx

Ivy’s nervousness at visiting Rosie’s family for Christmas evaporates almost immediately. Her whole family is so kind and welcoming that she soon feels at ease. Rosie’s invitation turned into spending Christmas Eve there also and spending the night.

“You’ll just have less travelling to do,” she’d said, “You can just go right to work from the house.”

Unable to argue with that logic, Ivy agreed, and she’s been having a great night playing with kids and talking with Rosie and her family. _And Rosie’s been at my side the whole time._ Ivy attributes it to her just being friendly, though the hopeful part of her wants it to be because her feelings are reciprocated. For now, it’s enough to be near her like this.

“Here, so… this is my old room. They keep it for me for when I visit or when their grandkids visit,” Rosie explains, “The bed might be a bit tight for us, but I think we’ll manage. You’re alright with sharing, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m cool with it if you are.”

Internally, though, she’s freaking out. _Why am I hearing those sirens from the ‘Ironside’ opening?_ When she’s conscious, Ivy knows she can control herself and her desires, but asleep, she might reach out for Rosie without realizing it. She doesn’t want to ruin. They change into their pajamas and sit on the bed, and Rosie says, “Hey, I’m not really tired yet. I wanna sit up and talk. C’mon, let’s have fun.”

“Sleepover fun?”

“Yeah, like when we used to have sleepovers when we were little, and we’d sit up all night and talk smack on teachers and talk about cute boys.”

Ivy’s heart gives an uncomfortable flop as she replies, “Yeah, those were always fun.”

“So… what is it with you and this Brice fella, huh? You seem real close.”

“We are… but we’re just friends. I was the first person he met when he came to LA, and honestly, I’m one of his only friends. I might be his only friend. I dunno… he’s just a nice guy. A little weird, sure, but nice,” she says.

She changes the subject after that, and they talk about work and bad coworkers and cops hitting on them.

“I’ve seen Malloy comin’ around talkin’ to you,” Rosie smirks, “I can tell he likes you, thinks you’re cute.”

“Yeah, well, Pete Malloy feels that way about any woman under twenty-five who works in dispatch. He’s asked me out, like, five or six times, and I keep turnin’ him down.”

“Why keep turnin’ him down? Malloy’s a nice guy,” Rosie says.

“He’s, uh… He’s just not my type, is all. Plus, I’m not into serial daters.”

“I guess I can see that. What exactly is your type, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

 _Fuck._ She tries to act nonchalant, tells her, “Oh, I dunno… little shorter, little darker… little skinnier, I guess. I’ve never really thought that deep about it. I just know what I like when I see it, I suppose.”

“But right now… you’re lookin’ for someone short, dark, and skinny?”

“Guess it’s not the usual tall, dark, and handsome everyone else is fond of, but I reckon I’ve always been a nonconformist,” Ivy says.

“Y’know, not everyone is fond of tall, dark, and handsome… Hey, I think now is a perfect time to give you your Christmas present,” Rosie smiles.

“Oh, you didn’t have to get me anything, Rosie! It’s enough to spend time with you and your family.”

“It’s nothin’ expensive, and if ya don’t like it, I won’t be mad,” she says softly, “Just close your eyes.”

“Rosie, it’s really not-“

“Just close your eyes, Ivy.”

Heart fluttering, Ivy does as she’s told and waits. There’s a beat. _Oh._ Something soft and warm touches her lips, and a moment passes before she realizes it’s Rosie’s lips. _She’s kissing me._ Ivy’s brain almost short circuits. She can’t do anything, can’t move, can’t respond. When Rosie pulls away shortly after, she quietly says, “If you don’t like it, that’s fine… but I had to go for it. We can always pretend this never happ-“

Ivy doesn’t give her time to finish the sentence, instead taking Rosie’s beautiful face in her hands and kissing her fiercely. Rosie laughs against her mouth, bringing up one delicate hand to cup Ivy’s cheek, and allows Ivy to lick into her mouth. No kiss has ever felt so wonderful. It’s an incredible dance of tongues and lips and teeth that only ceases when they both need to breathe.

“And just how long have you wanted to do that?” Rosie asks breathlessly.

“Long time… real long time, Rosie… I just never thought you’d be into me like that, so I didn’t say anything. I was happy to just be friends ‘cause I thought that was all you wanted,” Ivy explains, “I never-… I never dreamed-…”

She leans in for another kiss, softer this time, and feels Rosie smile.

“Y’know, Ivy, I actually felt the same way. Crazy to think we been wastin’ all this time dancin’ around when we coulda had each other.”

“I’m sure we’ll be able to figure out how to make up for lost time.”

“Oh, I agree, baby… I agree…”

Curling up with Rosie to go to sleep feels surreal, and Ivy furiously hopes she hasn’t simply dreamed it all. Still, she’s pleasantly surprised when Rosie kisses her awake and tells her softly, “Good morning, beautiful. Merry Christmas.”

She pulls Rosie in to kiss her again.


	11. It's (Not) Always a Good Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: some language, mentioned drug use, mild sexual content

Brice wakes with a groan. He doesn’t particularly mind working on a Saturday, but this one in particular isn’t going to be much fun, at least not for the fire department. St. Patrick’s Day is going to be full of drunks and fights and people doing stupid things, just as it was every year. He’s been at 164s for a couple weeks now, but he knows his time there is short. He did try to be more friendly, even joining the betting pool for how many drunken fights they’d be dispatched to today, though he doesn’t think the relatable approach is working. _I wonder where I’ll be sent next._ He’s already done stints at a brush station and a station near the beach.

Finally sitting up, he groans again, finding he has a small problem on his hands, notes the tenting in the front of his pajama pants. He makes his way into the bathroom, turns on the shower, steps out of his pajamas. Looking down at his body, he feels himself blush, embarrassed at his erection even though he’s alone. _It’s ridiculous._ Brice knows there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s just a bodily function like any other, but the sexual nature of this particular function just makes him uncomfortable.

 _But it has to be taken care of._ Brice steps under the spray, lets the hot water run over his skin in rivulets and soak into his hair, and he focuses on the water even as he takes himself in his hand. His strokes are fast and unnuanced, not really for pleasure but more simply to get the job done. There are no fantasies that float through his mind, no ideas of someone else touching him. He just tells himself it’s what has to be done, and it’s done soon enough… though he’s always surprised at the wave of pleasure that rolls up his spine when he finishes. He always forgets it’s supposed to feel good. Once that’s done, Brice simply continues his shower and goes about his routine, pushing that moment from his mind. Now though…

Now he just has to get through the day at 164s handling drunks. He and his current partner, Pfeiffer, barely get their duty assignments before they’re called to their first run. Someone collapsed in the middle of a bar.

“I can’t believe people are in bars already,” Brice says, “Are they really drinking this early?”

“Yeah. Bar’s doin’ a kegs-and-eggs. A lot of ‘em do now.”

“Pfeiffer, what exactly is a kegs-and-eggs?”

“Just somethin’ bars do every so often. I usually hear about ‘em on St. Paddy’s, but they might do ‘em other times. It’s nothin’ spectacular, just cheap green beer and dry eggs dyed green. I went to this place for it last year. It was awful.”

“If it’s so bad, why do people keep going back?”

Pfeiffer shrugs, “It’s somethin’ to do, I guess.”

Brice still isn’t sure if he understands, but he pretends he does. At least Pfeiffer is driving and knows how to get there quickly. The squad pulls up in front of a dingy bar with a few patrons milling around outside even at the early hour. A young woman runs up to greet them, saying, “I’m a nurse at Harbor General. Please hurry. I think the victim has diabetic ketoacidosis. I’ve got him in on a table.”

“Exactly what happened?” Brice asks.

“He was fine for a while,” she explains, “was here for a couple hours. Had sudden onset of nausea, vomiting, and abdominal pain. Managed to tell me he hadn’t been feeling well all night but came out to party anyway. He’s also fairly intoxicated, was poundin’ down beer because he was thirsty. He might be goin’ into shock.”

“Did he give you any other information?”

“He’s twenty-three and has a history of diabetes.”

Pfeiffer goes to the patient as Brice picks up the biophone.

“Rampart, Squad 164.”

“ _Squad 164, this is Rampart. Go ahead,_ ” Early says.

“Rampart, we have a male patient, age twenty-three, presenting with nausea, vomiting, and severe abdominal pain. Patient also has a history of diabetes. Stand by for vital signs,” Brice says, waits for Pfeiffer to pass them on, “Pulse is 130, respirations labored and gasping, BP is 60/40… we have detected the presence of ketotic odor on the breath.”

“ _164, start the patient on oxygen, begin IV with normal saline, and transport._ ”

“10-4, Rampart.”

“Brice, come over and help me with this IV, will ya? I can’t get his arm still…”

He hurries over and pulls the man’s arm away from his abdomen, pinning it to the table so Pfeiffer can administer the IV.

“Shit… he’s so tense, I’m not sure I can get it.”

Brice says, “Let me try,” quickly switching places with him, Pfeiffer pins the arm down. Taking a deep breath, Brice picks out the best vein and carefully but firmly presses the needle in with even pressure. _Just like Bellingham taught me._ It doesn’t go in easy, but Brice does manage to get it in the vein.

“There… and that’s the ambulance pulling up now.”

They help the attendants load the patient into the back of the ambulance, Pfeiffer climbs into it behind them, leaving Brice to pack everything up.

“You guys do a good job,” the nurse comments.

“We do try to do out best.”

“I mean, I see y’all comin’ in and outta Harbor General all the time ‘cause I work in Emergency there. You ever run to Harbor General?”

“On occasion. I’ve worked at two stations that report there.”

“Well, lemme know when you’re back. Name’s Carrie Weston,” she smiles.

She goes back into the bar, and Brice is halfway to Rampart before he realizes Nurse Weston might have been flirting with him. _That’s new._ He’s fairly certain no one’s ever flirted with him before. Of course, he doesn’t really know. Brice has never been particularly adept at picking up on that sort of thing. _I better not mention that, either._

At Rampart, Brice goes right to the bay for supplies, dutifully replacing everything they’ve used, and waits for Pfeiffer. He’s unpacked the drug box a second time when Pfeiffer walks up.

“How’s the patient?” Brice asks.

“Early says he oughta be fine after a while. Not sure what brought it on, though,” Pfeiffer shrugs, “Guess it coulda been anything, really. You got everything?”

“I believe so, yes.”

They pack up and go out to the squad, and once seated inside, Pfeiffer asks, “Hey, Brice… you ever gone out partyin’? Like when ya graduated or for St. Paddy’s or a big game? Somethin’ like that?”

“Honestly? No.”

“Why not?”

_Because no one ever invited me out._

“It just never seemed fun.”

“I guess I can see that,” Pfeiffer says, “Stops bein’ fun sometimes… but then, sometimes it’s a helluva good time.”

“I suppose it would depend on the people involved.”

“Yeah, s’pose it does, Brice.”

Pfeiffer hasn’t been hugely talkative with Brice, but that seems to be the sort of person he is. Brice generally doesn’t speak until spoken to, knowing people tend to not want to hear him speak for extended periods. It’s something he’s come to accept, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. They’re called out for a few more alcohol-related runs through the morning and afternoon, barely getting a respite in between runs. It’s late afternoon by the time they get a short break. Brice quickly makes himself a sandwich, wolfing half of it down in a few bites.

“Hey, Brice,” the captain calls, “C’mere for a second.”

Bringing his sandwich with him, Brice goes into the small office.

“Got a call from HQ while you were out,” Cap says, “Pfeiffer’s partner Goldstein was cleared, so he’ll be back next shift. They said you’ll be joining 36s for a bit on their C-shift. Johnston’s gonna use up some vacation time, I think.”

Brice’s heart sinks. _I knew it._ He tries not to let it show, simply thanks the captain for letting him know and returning to the kitchen.

“Everything okay, man?” Pfeiffer asks.

“Yes. Your partner has been cleared to return to duty. He’ll be here next shift.”

“Yeah? That’s good. I’m sure he’s been climbin’ the damn walls this whole time. Where ya headed next, Brice?”

“Station 36… covering someone’s vacation.”

He tries not to sound bitter, he really does, but the look on Pfeiffer’s face tells him he hasn’t succeeded. It’s so frustrating. It’s beyond frustrating. Even though Brice has known this particular position would be temporary, he’s still upset that his next assignment is also temporary. _When will it stop?_ Brice makes his way into the locker room to be alone, but Pfeiffer follows him.

“Hey, you’re gonna be alright,” he says, “You’re gonna get a long term spot and a great partner and a great station. Sometimes, though… well, just takes a ‘lil longer for some people, is all. You’ll get there.”

“That’s what everyone keeps telling me, but it starts to feel less and less true each time,” Brice grumbles.

“Reckon it would. Doesn’t make it less true, though.”

Pfeiffer nods and leaves the room as simply as he came. Turning the words over in his brain, Brice sits on one of the benches, wondering exactly when his time will come. It’s not something he likes wondering about.

“ _Squad 164, unknown type injury with an unconscious male…_ ”

They meet at the squad and speed off to the location. Brice, even during his short time as a paramedic, has been to this location a number of times, the Cecil Hotel. While not necessarily a shady place, it has a bit of a reputation thanks to several murders and suicides from the 1930s through the 1960s, and it does have its own cadre of frequent troublemakers. An almost bored looking man greets them in the lobby.

“It’s number 114 down here,” he says, “Fella comes in once a week with a crowd and they all shoot junk… Today he passes out and a girl come screamin’ outta there that his arm was gonna fall off. I took a look myself while I was waitin’ for ya, and she might just be right.”

“Was he injured in a fall? Did he cut his arm somehow when he passed out?” Brice asks.

“Doesn’t look like it. Sure smells awful bad, though.”

 _That doesn’t bode well._ The two paramedics head down the corridor into the room, and the smell of rotting flesh assaults Brice’s nose. The bottom half of the patient’s forearm is necrotic, a bacterial infection having eaten away the epidermis and part of the subcutaneous tissues. Some of the flesh is pink and raw, and some is black and dead, a putrid smell arising from the infected area.

“Does anyone know him?” Brice asks, “When did he start complaining of pain or discomfort?”

“Just a few days ago,” a girl says shakily, “I, uh, I hadn’t seen him in a few days an-and when I did his arm was all wrapped up like a mummy. I-I didn’t think nothin’ of it, but when he passed out, the bandage slipped, and-… and I flipped, man.”

“Pfeiffer, please relay the vitals to Rampart… pulse is 135… respirations 26… BP is 70/50.”

“Rampart says IV with Ringer’s lactate and transport as soon as possible.”

“Do they want the wound covered?”

“Negative, they’ll send him for debridement at arrival.”

It seems a bit late for debridement, but Brice is not a doctor, so it’s not his call. He wrinkles his nose as he leans over and inserts the IV in the other arm, knowing he’s lucky to find a good vein. This is not a smell he’ll forget, that’s for certain.

“How is he?” Pfeiffer asks.

“Bad. I believe he’s in septic shock from the infection. Where’s the ambulance?”

“On its way. Want me to go look out for it?”

“If you wish. I’ll be alright.”

Pfeiffer heads out into the lobby and returns after a short time with the ambulance attendants. The patient doesn’t stir when they place him on the gurney, nor during the ride to Rampart, nor when he’s removed from the ambulance. Dr. Brackett takes him into the treatment room, and just like that, it’s all out of Brice’s hands, the patient no longer his. He stands before the door for a long moment, letting all the adrenaline leave his system, trying to get the stink of rotten flesh from his nose.

“There ya are,” Pfeiffer says at the bay, “I was gonna come lookin’ for ya in a second. Everything okay? Hear somethin’ on the patient?”

“I haven’t, but I suspect he may come close to losing the arm. He’ll definitely lose it if he continues his drug use,” Brice says.

He purposefully does not answer the first question because everything is not okay. He’s still angry and still bitter and still upset. _I’m a permanent replacement… a professional replacement._ It’s galling. It’s insulting. Brice tells Ivy as much the next day.

“No, I agree with ya, Craig,” she says, “It is insulting. They can’t just hire you out as a substitute every shift. It’s not fair to you.”

“It’s not. I can’t-… I haven’t had an opportunity to form any connections in the department. How can I be expected to move up in the department when I haven’t been at one station longer than a year? I’m happy as a paramedic now, but I’m sure eventually I’ll want to be promoted.”

“Go talk to someone about it. There’s gotta be someone at HQ who can help you.”

“I don’t want to bother them with my problems.”

“You’re gonna need to bother somebody with them if you want it fixed,” she tells him, “You do want it fixed, don’t you?”

“Well, yes, but I-“

“Then ya gotta fix it, Craig. And if ya can’t fix it yourself, then ya find the person who can. I mean, really, if you’re having a serious problem, fuck other people’s comfort, especially at HQ. Y’know how many dumb problems they get called for when they’re not needed? You have a real, legitimate problem. Go talk to someone.”

“I am switching shifts again, so I’m off tomorrow. I suppose I could make an appointment.”

“Suppose nothin’. You’re goin’ to. Promise me.”

“I promise, Ivy.”

Always a man of his word, Brice goes to HQ the next day to speak with one of the paramedic chiefs, Chief Saunders.

“And what seems to be the problem, Mr. Brice?”

“I wished to speak with you regarding my… my placements within the department,” Brice explains, “I have yet to spend longer than three weeks at any one paramedic position. I am being shuffled from station to station as a sort of professional substitute, and frankly, it is a bit… disquieting to me.”

“So your concern is that you’re not being given a more permanent position.”

“Correct, and I believe it is negatively impacting my long term prospects within the department as I am unable to make lasting connections with others. Also, it is disheartening to see paramedics fresh out of training being given non-temporary positions when I am nearly six months out of training. I understand spaces are finite, but I am of the opinion I should have been given first choice in these positions, sir.”

His heart beats wildly as he awaits a response to his bold statement, but he tries not to let it show, hopes his face is the mask of calm he wants it to be.

“Well, that took a lotta guts, I’m sure, and I agree with ya, Brice,” Chief Saunders says, “That’s not fair to you, but I think the reasoning behind it is that you’re damn good at your job. You can go to any station and just work. There’s no real ego problems between you and any of the other paramedics. Have heard some complaints about some odd behavior on your part but-“

“Odd behavior? What sort of odd behavior?”

“Nothin’ bad, really. Some repetitive behavior, like doin’ the bunks over and over, or cleanin’ the station a couple times over, checkin’ your drug box and countin’ everything a few times in a row… it’s nothin’ serious, but it gets to some fellas, y’know?” Saunders explains, “Anyway, other than that, you do an excellent job. Where ya headed next?”

“To 36s.”

“For how long?”

“The length of the man’s vacation, likely under two weeks.”

“Alright, lemme look into it for ya, Brice. I’m gonna see what’s coming up, what’s available, who’s transferring or retiring or getting promoted, and I’ll do what I can for ya. I can’t promise anything else, but I’ll do my best, okay?”

“That’s all I can ask of anyone, sir. I appreciate it very much, and I’m sorry to bother you-“

“Oh, you’re no bother, son. You wouldn’t believe the kinda shit some guys come in here with, claimin’ it’s the world’s biggest problem that their partner won’t let ‘em drive or they don’t like that their station ain’t all white guys. You at least have a legitimate concern. Honestly, it’s refreshing. Anyway, you have a good day, and like I said, I’m gonna do what I can for ya, Brice.”

“Thank you again, sir.

“Anytime, son. Anytime.”

Brice doesn’t necessarily have high hopes as he leaves headquarters, but it’s more hope than he had going in. Maybe everything will finally get better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lack of Bellingham this chapter, but I just ended up focusing on Brice for this little one here... but maybe since this one was short, I'll have some surprises in store ;)


	12. Life Doesn't Discriminate Between the Sinners and the Saints

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mild violence, some language, injured children, mentioned child death.
> 
> Related to [chapter 16 in 'Oh, There You Are'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4278609/chapters/11578393) but not necessary to read first.

“Hey, you’re awful quiet today,” Rosie says, stepping closer, “Somethin’ bothering you?”

Ivy looks up from her seat in the living room of their now shared apartment, sighs, says, “Guess I have been kinda out of it lately. I’m just worried about Craig.”

“That’s natural, I guess. He’s your friend, and he’s in a dangerous job.”

“No, it’s not just that, Rosie. He’s been acting different lately. I mean, he’s usually pretty closed off with his emotions but not this much. He just comes right home from his shift and goes into his apartment and won’t come out. We used to hang out all the time, and now I haven’t spoken more than five words to him in maybe a month or so. I’m just worried about what might be wrong with him.”

“Did anything happen a month ago?” Rosie asks.

“Not that I can think of,” Ivy explains, “At the very end of March, he got a more permanent position as a paramedic at Station 45, and it really seemed like he was enjoyin’ himself. At least, he was enjoyin’ himself ‘til about a month ago. But he won’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“Has he done this before?”

“Once or twice… but he always caves after a little bit and tells me. I’m just hopin’ it’s nothin’ too bad… nothin’ that can’t be fixed,” Ivy says.

Rosie sits beside her, taking her hand and planting a soft kiss to her cheek, and Ivy leans against her slim body. After a moment, Rosie whispers, “Y’know, this is why I love you, baby. You’re so bighearted. You care so much. Here… we’ll go and invite Craig over for dinner. Maybe we’ll be able to talk to him about what’s goin’ on, okay?”

“Okay. That sounds good.”

Turning her head, Ivy gently captures Rosie’s lips in a kiss. _I’m just worried about my friend._ Craig isn’t high-strung, but he does have a tendency to make rash and dramatic choices when he’s hurting or upset. She hasn’t really told Rosie that part of it yet. As a matter of fact, part of her wants to tell Rosie to stay out of it because she isn’t sure Craig will want to be vulnerable in front of someone else, but she knows it’s important to show Craig he can count on Rosie as much as he can on Ivy.

“And this is why I love you, Rosie.”

“What reason is that?”

“Because you care about my crazy ass friend nobody else likes.”

“Well, he kinda came as part of the deal, but that’s okay ‘cause he’s a nice guy.”

“I’m glad you think so. C’mon, let’s go now and get the hardest part over with,” Ivy tells her, “I’ve, uh, I’ve kinda neglected to mention that it can be kinda hard gettin’ Craig to tell the truth when something’s really upsetting him. He likes to deny it.”

“We’ll get through to him, baby. We’ll help him.”

Another quick kiss, and they head across to Craig’s apartment and knock on the door.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Ivy and Rosie! Open up!”

“No! I- I’m not feeling well!”

“Bullshit! Open up or I’ll do it for ya! This has gone on long enough!”

There’s a long pause before Craig calls, “Just you, Ivy.”

Looking over, she expects to see hurt in Rosie’s eyes but sees none.

“It’s okay. I understand. You go and make it right, okay?” Rosie whispers.

“Okay. I’ll let you know what happens.”

The lock clicks, and Ivy turns the handle, pushing the door open, closing and locking it behind her. The blinds are all drawn, which is not unusual for summer in Los Angeles, the room dark and almost gloomy.

“Craig, where the hell are you?”

“In the bedroom. You-… You may come in.”

Ivy gasps when she does. Craig stands in front of a full-length mirror, wearing only a pair of gym shorts. A large bruise covers part of his ribcage on his left side. Smaller bruises are dotted over his torso and thighs. There’s a small cut on the bridge of his nose near his glasses and one on his forehead. He won’t look at her. Ivy steps close, letting her fingers ghost over his bruised flank, and asks, “Craig, what the fuck is goin’ on?”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” he mumbles.

“Well, too late for that. I’ve been worried. Tell me what’s goin’ on.”

“If I tell you I suddenly became clumsy, would that-“

“The truth, Craig.”

“I just had a-a small accident on a-“

“Craig. The truth.”

She sees him struggle to keep his composure, to keep his expression neutral… sees his lip tremble and his hand shake as it runs through his hair. When he finally speaks, there’s a catch in his voice, and he sounds almost childlike.

“They, umm… The guys at 45s… They don’t like me very much.”

Rage flares up in Ivy’s chest, burning and insistent.

“So they beat you? Jesus, you gotta do something about this.”

“Do what?”

“I dunno… at least tell someone. Tell your captain-“

“No. He’s new to command and doesn’t want to make waves with the men, let alone with headquarters,” he says quietly, still not looking up, “He won’t do anything.”

“Then ya gotta go over his head! Go to a chief and-“

“No. I will not act like a petulant child and tattle to-“

“It’s not tattling!”

“It is!” his head snaps up, “I never went tattling on my bullies in school, and I won’t now!”

“Well, somethin’ has to be done! Ya can’t just let ‘em keep hittin’ ya, Craig!”

 _He’s stubborner than a goddamn mule._ Ivy just can’t believe he’s standing in front of her, covered in bruises, refusing to get help. She wants to shake him, to force him into help, to march him to headquarters herself so he can speak to someone and fix everything. Some of his bruises are yellowish-green, showing their age. _This isn’t new._ A new wave of anger roils up in her chest, but she forces it down. Craig doesn’t need her angry. He just needs her to help.

Thinking more calmly, she tells herself to look at the situation as a dispatcher. _This is abuse. What would I tell an abuse victim at work?_

“When did this start?” she asks.

“About a month ago,” he replies, voice softening, looking down once more, “They were a bit verbally abusive before this, but it devolved into physical abuse… as it tends to do when the words receive no reaction.”

“Do you have any idea why they might do this?”

“The paramedic I replaced was fired for… I’m not exactly sure. I’ve received a few different accounts, of everything from stealing drugs to-to stealing money from patients to stealing money to buy drugs he took while working. I don’t know what the real story is, and frankly, I don’t care,” he tells her, “The point is that he did not deserve the position if he abused it so, though his partner and fellow crewmen are not of that opinion. I don’t-… I don’t know why they decided to take it out on me, but they did… so here we are.”

He drops onto his bed, looking childlike again as he wrings his hands in his lap. Ivy walks over and sits next to him, resting her hand on his forearm. He flinches slightly, and the anger returns.

“Look, Craig… I just don’t wanna see you hurting. You’re my friend. I wanna see you happy.”

He ducks his head, but Ivy sees his lip trembling once more, so she continues, “I want you to get some help somehow. Now, I don’t know how you can get it, but I want you to get it.”

“I can’t… I have to handle this myself, Ivy.”

“But you don’t have to. You don’t have to do everything alone anymore,” she whispers, “You have me and Rosie. Crawford’s still awful fond of ya, too. He’d help.”

“I know,” he murmurs, “I know… but this is really something I have to do alone. I need to prove I can handle myself.”

“Doesn’t look like you’re doin’ a very good job of it.”

“I’ll get there. I promise. I know what I’m doing.”

“Like I said, doesn’t look like it.”

Ivy’s hand slips down to hold one of Craig’s fidgeting ones, and he allows it, calloused fingers squeezing tight. They sit together in comfortable silence, and after a moment, Ivy says, “Come over for dinner with us tonight. We miss you, me and Rosie. I’ll see if you can stay the night.”

“I don’t want to impose on the two of you.”

“It’s not imposing if you’re invited.”

“I, umm… Yes… Yes, I would like that, Ivy. I would like it very much.”

“Good. You go ahead and get dressed, and I’ll go talk to Rosie, okay? Just come over in an hour or so for dinner no matter what.”

Craig agrees, so Ivy returns to her apartment and lays everything out for Rosie.

“Oh, god, that’s awful. Isn’t there anything we can do to help him?” Rosie asks.

“He said he’ll handle it himself, and I guess I gotta believe him,” Ivy explains, “That’s just his way, after all. Just-… I have a kinda weird favor to ask, and you can absolutely say no ‘cause it is so weird, but-“

“What is it, baby?”

“Well… sometimes, when one of us would get real upset about somethin’, we would sleep together.”

Rosie’s eyebrows shoot up. Ivy swears, quickly backpedals, “No, not like that! Jesus- no! We never did that! Just- we would just sleep in the bed. It’s comforting, y’know?”

“Yeah, I understand… I think,” Rosie says, though she does look a bit suspicious still, “Well, I don’t think I’d mind you doin’ it, but it might be weird if I’m there. I just don’t know Craig that well yet.”

“You’re sure? I won’t go if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“I’m sure. He’s your friend, your best friend, and you’re his. Sometimes friends just need each other. I can’t be mad when you’d do the same for me.”

Smiling, Ivy leans in, telling Rosie, “Have I told you today how much I love you?”

“Hmm… a little… could always say it more, though…” she replies, meeting Ivy’s lips, wearing a soft smile of her own.

xXxXx

The Fourth of July is always busy for the fire department, as Brice has learned over the last few years. 45s is called to no less than five grill fires, two fireworks accidents, and one incident with sparklers… and that’s all before lunch. It’s busy, but it’s not a good busy. It’s just running all over. Brice and his partner Whittaker stop for hot dogs and eat them in the squad, not knowing when they would have another moment for a break.

“ _Squad 45, respond to the call, child struck by a vehicle…_ ”

“Squad 45, 10-4.”

Brice pulls the map from the glove box and directs Whittaker to the side street. A crowd of people fills the street, two police cars parked nearby flanking a yellow convertible, a woman in custody. The paramedics push their way through the crowd, ordering people out of the way until the police manage to herd everyone back. One officer sits with a forlorn-looking man who must be the child’s father.

The little girl has a large lump on her head, a number of cuts and abrasions on her limbs, and her right leg sits at an odd angle. Brice quickly takes her vitals, even his slender fingers big against her small neck, and he listens to Whittaker talking to the father.

“Sir, what happened?”

“It was-… God, I can’t believe she did it,” the father says brokenly, “I can’t believe it.”

An officer speaks up, “Another witness states the suspect is the girl’s mother. Suspect and the victim’s father have been in the process of a divorce that’s gotten kinda messy. When the father got custody of the victim, the suspect became very upset. There’s been a restraining order against her, but today somethin’ changed. She came here and just nailed the kid with her car, said if she couldn’t have her, neither could he.”

It feels like something is crawling up Brice’s spine, but he tries to ignore it. _I can’t let personal feelings get in the way of my work._

“Whittaker, pulse is 190, respirations are 35, and BP is 60/30… pupils are unequal and sluggish… and there’s rigidity in the abdomen. There’s also a deformity in the pelvis, particularly the right side,” Brice calls.

Whittaker relays the information, tells Brice, “Rampart says stabilize the right leg and pelvis, administer IV with Ringer’s, and transport as soon as possible.”

Looking at the tiny arm, Brice takes a deep breath, picks out the best vein, and slips the needle in. _That’s much harder to do on children._ He ignores the father’s numb expression as best he can as he works. The best way to help him is to care for his daughter, so that’s what he does, and it’s an excellent distraction… until it isn’t. There are no distractions in the ambulance. The father’s worry and grief seem to fill the small space until Brice feels like he’s choking on it. He watches the man stroke his daughter’s hair and hold her small hand, and without really wanting to, Brice quietly asks, “What’s her name?”

“Emmy… we named her after my grandmother, Emma Rachel. She died a bit before Emmy was born, so we thought it would be fitting- well… I thought so, anyway. She’s been an angel, an absolute angel… I don’t know what I’m gonna do without her-“

“Don’t worry about that now. The doctors at Rampart are going to do everything in their power to help Emmy. You shouldn’t worry unless they tell you to.”

“Can’t help it. I’ve always been a worrier… You don’t have kids, do you?”

“No… No, I don’t. I don’t have any family,” Brice tells him.

“Then you don’t understand… you think you do… but you don’t.”

There’s no malice in his voice, just the same sadness as before, and Brice has never been more grateful to reach Rampart and hand off a patient. He darts back outside for fresh air, the interior of the hospital too cloying. The whole scene and story got to him, got into his bones and his heart and his soul. _My parents didn’t like me, but they never tried to kill me._ But the mother had said she wanted the child so bad she would rather kill her than be separated… or was it that she hated the child’s father so much she’d destroy their child just to hurt him? It makes his head hurt… and his heart.

“Brice?”

He looks up, sees Whittaker in front of him.

“I’m fine… I’m alright.”

Whittaker doesn’t look convinced but says nothing. _Typical Whittaker._ He’s a good paramedic, but as a man, he’s subpar. He’s not an active participant in the abuse heaped on Brice, but he doesn’t speak out against it, either, still makes his dislike of Brice known. If he would only tell the others to stop, they probably would, but Whittaker is too wrapped up in trying to be liked and being petty to do anything of use besides his job. One day, Brice suspects he may not even be able to do that anymore. He makes a kind of personal bet that Whittaker won’t last another year in this job.

Thankfully, none of the men who torment him are at the station long enough to do so today, so Brice is spared the additional anguish. They’re busy well into the night, and around midnight, 45s is called to a first alarm structure fire, a home in a usually quiet neighborhood. Brice can see 127s there when they arrive, as well as 51s. The second floor is already fully involved. People are screaming all around. Firemen are shouting orders back and forth, radio chatter adding to the cacophony.

“Can I get a paramedic over here!”

Looking to Whittaker, Brice waits for his nod before taking off, heading for the police officer who called out. He’s with a woman who’s hysterical, kneeling on the ground and wailing. _This does not bode well._ Brice kneels in front of her and gently settles a hand on her shoulder, asking, “Ma’am? Ma’am, can you tell me what’s wrong? Are you hurt anywhere?”

She doesn’t answer, clearly incapable of doing so. Regrouping, he speaks more forcefully this time, “Ma’am, the firemen are doing everything possible, but I need you to tell me what’s wrong.”

“I-It’s my babies!” she cries, “They’re inside! They- They’ve been inside!”

“Do you know what happened?”

“We were shooting off fireworks for the-the holiday, and one must have landed on the roof! The kids- kids were tired so they went in early! Now- Now they’re-“

“The paramedics are in there now,” Brice tells her, “I promise you, they’re going to do everything they can, everything within their power. For now, I’m here to take care of you, alright? Tell me, are you hurt anywhere?”

“N-No… No, I-I don’t think so.”

“Okay… okay, then for now you just need to calm down,” he says, more gently this time, “I know you’re upset and frightened, but you’re going to make yourself ill. Just try to slow your breathing… That’s it. That’s very good, ma’am… You’re sure you’re not hurting anywhere?”

There’s a flurry of commotion, and Brice turns to the house. Gage and DeSoto exit the house, each bearing a small body and hurrying out of view. That doesn’t surprise Brice. It’s best to keep them as secluded as possible if it’s bad. What does surprise Brice is that Lopez and Kelly come hurrying out not long after, the sight making his chest tighten suddenly. _I hope no one’s hurt._ He forces himself to return his attention to the woman.

“Did they find my babies?”

“I think so-“

“Are they alive? Will they live?”

“That I don’t know, ma’am. They’ll take them to Rampart General Hospital. I’m sure one of the officers here can take you to Rampart if you’d like to go,” he says.

The ambulance arrives a minute or so later. Brice watches Gage climb into the ambulance with two tiny bodies, and at that point, Brice turns and hands the woman off to the police. His stomach is in knots. That’s his second bereaved parent today, and he’s emotionally drained. In order to fight it, he simply returns to the squad for his air tank and mask, offering to step in on a line with Lopez. It’s nice to do some work for now where he doesn’t have to talk to anyone.

“Thanks for jumpin’ in on the line with me, Brice,” Lopez says when the fire is finally out, “I appreciate it.”

“You’re very welcome. Is everything alrigh-“ Brice snaps his mouth shut.

“What is it?”

“I shouldn’t ask. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking-“

“What is it, Brice?”

“Just-… I wanted to ask how Kelly is doing. I saw you bring him out.”

Lopez sighs quietly, says, “Physically, I think he’s fine. He just kinda freaked out when Roy and Johnny brought those kids down, got all tense and then begged me to get him out. Roy’s takin’ him to Rampart in the squad.”

“And is DeSoto alright?”

“Probably not… He’s got kids of his own, after all. This kinda shit never sits well with parents.”

“I don’t think it sits well with anyone, Lopez.”

“I hear that. See ya around, Brice.”

Lopez slumps off to Engine 51, to Stoker, the two standing close together. Brice tries not to think anything of it, but he remembers his Christmas shift there. He remembers thinking something of it then, though he can’t quite put his finger on what the something is. He pushes it from his mind as Whittaker calls him to return to the station.

Exhaustion and unease still sit heavy in Brice’s limbs, seep out from somewhere deep inside his chest, infect every bone and muscle and cell in his body. He doesn’t want to go back to 45s, doesn’t want to deal with his shiftmates and their cruelty, but he has to. _Just stay quiet. Keep your head down. Mind your own business._ Sometimes it works. Tonight, he’s tired enough to ignore them. He doesn’t even hear distinct voices behind him, just snippets and words, and it’s easy to ignore the nonsense.

Someone wraps their arms around his waist from behind and laughs. Heat boils in Brice’s chest and face. Without really thinking and half-blinded by rage, he viciously throws back his elbow. The bone connects with something hard. His assailant cries out and lets go, and Brice turns, giving the man a sharp shove. It’s with a savage kind of pleasure that he watches Carlsberg go toppling over the bench and hit the floor hard, head bouncing off the tile. Brice’s muscles are so tight they almost hurt, his fists clenches, fingernails digging into his palms. The other men stare at him as he stares down at Carlsberg. His voice shakes with anger and adrenaline as he tells Carlsberg, “Never… touch me… again.”

“What the hell happened in here?”

Cap stands in the doorway, and without hesitation, Brice says, “Carlsberg misstepped and tripped over the bench. I suggest Whittaker should look him over.”

He then turns back to his locker and pulls off his t-shirt, revealing the bruises underneath. _I dare them to blame this on me. I will fucking end every single one of their careers._ A tense moment passes before Cap says, “Whittaker… check him out… and Steve? I suggest you be more careful from now on.”

The savage pleasure is back, and Brice is ashamed to admit he enjoys it. He ignores everyone as he stalks into the shower, fairly confident none will follow him. That’s how it worked when he was in school. Just show them once, with compelling force, that you’re willing and capable of fighting back, and the physical abuse will generally cease. Especially this time, with the others witnessing his retribution, he’s certain it will work. _And then in three shifts, I will be gone._

He hasn’t told anyone about his most recent meeting with Chief Saunders, just a couple of weeks ago. If he hadn’t already scheduled it, he wouldn’t have gone in because he was sporting an impressive split lip and a cut in his eyebrow.

“You alright, Brice?” Saunders asked once the greetings were done.

“Yessir, I’m fine. Just a-… a mishap,” he replied.

Saunders didn’t look like he believed him, but he didn’t address the injuries at the moment, instead picking up a sheet of paper, saying, “I must admit, I’m a bit confused, Brice.”

“Sir?”

“Couple months ago you were in here beggin’ for a regular station and shift, but now you’re here sayin’ you want to go back to subbing and bein’ temporary. I don’t understand.”

“I have simply realized it’s not for me, sir. I would prefer to move more often.”

“Well, I’d like to keep you at a regular station if I could. Is it something that can be fixed?”

“No, sir,” he said, trying to hide his uncomfortable shifting, “It’s simply my personal feelings.”

Saunders didn’t say anything for a moment, then leaned in, quietly saying, “Brice, son, if something’s happening that shouldn’t be, I want you to tell me. I want to rectify it.”

For a brief moment, Brice considered it. He considered telling the whole truth and snitching out the entire shift, getting them all in as much trouble as he could. Logic kicked in instead, reminded him that doing so would not be a good career move. He simply replied, “As I said, sir, it was a mishap. Everything is fine. I simply wish to make a change.”

The chief accepted his answer, and in about a week, Brice will be going to B-shift at 51s, and he does not plan on returning to 45s A-shift ever again, not while these men are on it. He stands in the shower and lets the hot water pour over him, soak into his hair, soothe his aching muscles and poor temper. _Soon… soon, I’ll be free._ Most importantly, he’s not going to stay at any one station long enough for this to ever happen again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I'm going to be switching to weekly updates!
> 
> *cheering, throwing of confetti, etc*


	13. This is Halloween, This is Halloween!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: strong sexual content, strong language, injured child
> 
> For real, there is some strong sexual content of the lesbian variety in this chapter. I am going to leave this rated at Teen and Up but if anyone has an issue with that, please let me know and I will be happy to up the rating.

Bob yawns, rubs at the back of his neck, opens his locker. He jumps back with a yelp and swear. Quiet snickering sounds behind him.

“Really, Kelly?” he asks.

Chet Kelly steps up and removes the spring-loaded mask from Bob’s locker, saying, “Sorry, babe. Just can’t help myself when it’s Halloween, I guess.”

“Ya can’t help yourself when it’s not Halloween, either. Why are you here, anyway?”

“Just pickin’ up some OT,” Kelly replies, “Boyle wanted the day off to take his kids trick-or-treating, and I need a ‘lil extra cash for my baby.”

“What baby?”

“My car.”

“Alright well, do us all a favor and keep the pranks to a minimum, okay? Cap ain’t too fond of ‘em, and I think we’ll have enough freaky shit happenin’ on our runs,” Bob tells him, “Christ, I hope Early’s workin’ tonight.”

“Yeah, I know he likes the holidays ‘cause all the crazy stuff comes in. I think it’ll mostly be crazy ‘cause of all the costumes. I think last year, Johnny and Roy treated a gorilla, a coupla sexy nurses, and a clown.”

“Well, we’re always treatin’ clowns.”

Kelly agrees with a snort and heads off into the bay, leaving Bob to get dressed. 45s is a good station. Bob hasn’t been on C-shift long, keeps being used a temporary man for long-term needs, but he doesn’t hate it, per se. He just hates not having a regular station with a group of guys he can really get to know. He wants to have that. He wants a crew he can call his family. That doesn’t seem ready to happen any time soon, however. _It’s just not my time yet._ Easter has always said good things happen in their own time. It would just be nice if those good things would speed it up a little.

The paramedics get their first call as Bob is buttoning his last button, a child with abdominal pain. When they arrive, they find the girl had gotten into the trick-or-treat candy stash that was supposed to be handed out and ate all she could before her mother found her. They get a call after that for a boy who accidentally ate some candy with peanut butter and had an allergic reaction. Then there’s a woman who lit her kitchen on fire trying to make candy.

“Well, this has been a helluva day, and it ain’t even eleven yet,” Bob comments.

“You can say that again,” Zlatkov says, “Halloween’s always a shit show, honestly. People just like holidays as an excuse to get drunk off their ass. Any holiday. Hell, people would get wasted on the fuckin’ anniversary of V-E day if it was socially acceptable.”

“Nah, I hear ya. Reckon we’ll probably have our fair share of the drunks tonight.”

Holidays always bring some new and interesting runs, and just when Bob thinks he’s seen it all, the universe surprises him somehow. It’s early in the night when they get the call: a fire at a crematorium. Everyone stops and looks at one another for a moment.

“Did-… Did he say crematorium?” Kelly asks incredulously.

“That’s what I heard,” Zlatkov says, “but I’m not sure I believe it.”

“Aren’t crematoriums supposed to be on fire?”

“To a certain point, I guess.”

Sure enough, when they arrive, the building housing the units is billowing thick smoke into the night sky. 45s is the first station there, and Cap gets ready to start directing work when a young woman comes out to greet them.

“Dammit, I knew someone would call you fellas,” she says, “I mean, I appreciate their diligence, but it’s nothin’. Just a little mishap.”

“What kind of mishap?”

“Some numbskull sent us an embalmed body. I mean, what kinda- Every funeral director knows you can’t cremate an embalmed body. Know what happens if ya do?” she asks, jabbing her thumb over her shoulder, “That. Ya get that.”

“Is there anything we can do for you, miss?” Bob asks, “You’re okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m alright… Just irritated, is all. Y’know, I’m gonna have to give Boston’s an earful in the morning. If they think they can get one up on me just ‘cause I’m the daughter of the owner and not the son, they got another thing comin’. I’ve been in this business my whole life! I know what I’m doin’!”

“I belive ya, Miss Sharpe. Sure we can’t help ya out?”

“I’m sure, Mister… Bellingham. Thanks for the quick response, guys,” she says, “Y’all have a good night.”

She goes back inside, and with a quiet chuckle, Bob heads back to the squad. As he passes the engine, Kelly leans out, asking, “Who was she, Bob?”

“That girl? Oh, she helps run the funeral home, kid. Pretty tough customer.”

“Yeah? She’s awful cute, though.”

“Why don’t ya tell her that, then?” Bob smirks.

“Well, let’s not get too hasty there, babe,” Kelly replies, “I was just sayin’ she’s pretty, is all…”

Bob just chuckles again and rejoins Zlatkov in the squad, mentally preparing himself for the rest of the shift. _At least Zlatkov’s a good partner._ He’s a bit quiet but not too quiet, willing to have at least occasional conversation and would answer Bob in full sentences more than half the time. Zlatkov even cracks the rare joke. They’re not perfect partners, but they work well together. That’s really all that matters, at least for the time being.

Halloween just keeps going. Mostly they treat lots of drunks. There’s the girl in the belly-dancer costume who twisted her ankle. A guy in a gorilla costume has a dislocated shoulder. A space alien has passed out in a bar bathroom. There are a lot of little injuries all over their district, from children to adults.

“ _Squad 16, respond to the call, injured child…_ ”

Bob and Zlatkov soon arrive at a residential home where a party seems to be happening. A panicked man quickly ushers them inside, saying, “It’s my fault! It’s all my fault!”

“What happened?” Zlatkov asks, “Where’s the child?”

“Back here…”

They’re led back to a family room. A woman is crouched next to the couch where a toddler lay semiconscious, crying weakly. Zlatkov hurries over, repeats, “What happened?”

“She ate a bunch of my husband’s blood pressure medicine,” she replies, “We thought she was asleep. Thank God I came up to check on her when I did.”

“Rampart,” Bob calls over the biophone, “this is Squad 45.”

“ _Squad 45, go ahead._ ”

“Rampart, we have a child aged approximately eighteen months. Mother reports she ingested a number of blood pressure pills. Stand by for vitals… pulse is 80 and irregular, respirations 18… BP is 60/30. Patient is semiconscious, skin is cool and clammy.”

“ _45, monitor the patient and transport as soon as possible. Report any change in vitals._ ”

The mother speaks up, “I just don’t know why she would do this.”

“She’s a toddler,” Bob says, “They don’t think logically. It’s Halloween, and these ‘lil pills look an awful lot like candy. We’re gonna take her to Rampart, and they’ll take good care of her there.”

Zlatkov and the mother ride off in the ambulance, and Bob follows in the squad, his heart feeling strangely heavy in spite of his confidence the girl will live. He just pushes it down, unsure of why it’s even there in the first place.

xXxXx

“I just don’t understand it,” Brice comments as they return to 14s.

Miller turns in the driver’s seat to fix him with an incredulous look, asking, “What-? What, you don’t understand Halloween?”

“No, I understand Halloween, Miller. It’s fun to dress in a costume and get free candy. What I don’t understand is when people drink themselves into a blackout.”

“Guess it could be fun.”

“What could possibly be fun about that?”

“I dunno. I never said it was fun. I only did it once, and I hated it. Spent the whole next day throwin’ up. It was awful,” Miller says, “Just sayin’ that some people think it’s fun.”

They’ve collected a number of alcohol-related patients over the course of the evening, from just tipsy to blackout drunk, and it just confuses Brice. He can understand being a little drunk, certainly. He’s been tipsy a few times, but why anyone would want to drink so much they don’t know what’s going on around them is a mystery.

“You ever do it, Brice?”

“Do what?”

“Get blackout drunk?”

“No, I can’t say I have,” he replies, “I’ve been a little drunk before, but not like that.”

“You should keep it that way. Throwin’ up like that is no fun, man.”

“That much I do know.”

They get a moment’s respite at 14s. It’s strange to be back here, the place it all started for Brice. Everything still looks the same, is in the same place. He walked right back in a few days ago and found his favorite mug still in the cabinet where he’d left it a couple years ago. C-shift makes it feel a little different, since he on A-shift here for his probationary, but some of those guys are still here on that shift. _I hope I see them tomorrow._ He wants to see Da Silva most of all, to see how he’s doing.

“ _Squad 14, Squad 45, respond to the fight at Theo’s Bar, police are on scene…_ ”

“Oh, this should be interesting,” Miller grouses, “Theo’s is a shithole.”

“I agree. And it must be quite the fight if two squads have been called.”

Brice and Miller arrive first and are quickly tasked with treating some minor injuries until a woman comes stumbling toward them. Her torso is covered in blood. Miller swears quietly, and they both rush to her, easing her to the floor.

“I’m fine!” she tells them, “I’m fine! C’mon now, fuck off me! I’m fine!”

“Ma’am, you’re bleeding from the chest,” Brice says, “That is not fine.”

“I’m… I’m what? Oh- Oh, shit…”

Brice can now make out clean holes in her shirt and asks, “Can you remember what you were stabbed with tonight?”

“I was stabbed?”

“Yes, ma’am. Several times.”

That seems to be news to her. Brice quickly works to stabilize her, applying pressure bandages as 45s arrives, one of their paramedics asking, “What can we do for ya here?”

 _I know that voice._ Brice looks up, feels his lips briefly form a smile. He didn’t know Bellingham was on C-shift, too. Fighting the impulse and failing, Brice calls, “Bellingham, how are you?”

The big man looks over and grins, says, “I’m great, kid. Just another day at the office, right? Oh, I think your ambulance is outside. Need any help?”

“It would be appreciated.”

Bellingham comes over with a smile and helps Brice load his patient into the ambulance, telling the woman, “Ma’am, you’re gonna be just fine. Brice here is one of the best.”

Heat creeps into Brice’s face. _He’s too kind._ His words seem to put the woman at ease, at least as at ease as she can be with five stab wounds to the chest. If she’s still alive after all this, however, after a knife fight and walking around, she should remain alive for quite some time.

“That other guy tellin’ the truth? I’m gonna be alright?” she asks.

“Yes. Bellingham is also one of the best, and I have never known him to tell a lie,” Brice says truthfully.

“Hmm… maybe this is what I needed… kinda a slap in the face.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Been kinda just… wanderin’ through life, not really knowin’ what to do with myself,” she explains, “I think this is my wakeup call to figure it all out, to make a change.”

“It could be… and I know it will be a good change,” he tells her.

Early is waiting for them at Rampart, and the young woman is quickly ushered away into a treatment room, leaving Brice to gather up the equipment and go to the bay. Dr. Morton is there.

“Well, Brice, this is shaping up to be one helluva shift,” he says, “I think I’ve seen more drunks tonight than I have in all my time here.”

“Yes, it is shaping up to be quite the evening so far.”

“And Early is loving it, of course. That man lives for these sorts of nights.”

“He likes the variety… and the potential for a good story,” Brice says.

“That he does.”

Brice sets to replenishing what supplies he can until Miller arrives.

“There ya are, man. How’s the patient? She gonna be okay?” Miller asks.

“From what I’ve heard, yes, she should make a full recovery.”

“That’s good. Still can’t believe she didn’t realize she was stabbed. I mean, couple inches one way or another, she’d be dead,” Miller comments.

They’re ready to head out when Bellingham comes in with a patient, flanking the gurney with a grim look on his face. Something shifts in Brice’s chest. _That expression looks wrong on his face when I’ve only ever seen him smiling._ Brice and Miller wait at the bay for him to return, and he’s still wearing that grim look when he does.

“What happened?” Brice asks, “No one seemed to be seriously injured when we left.”

“Yeah, we didn’t think so, either. Just loaded this guy in the ambulance and halfway here, he tanked. Stopped breathin’, heart stopped beatin’, the works. Probably had internal bleeding, but I sure as fuck can’t fix that in the ambulance, can I…”

Brice merely hums, unsure of how else to respond. He’s seen some of the veteran paramedics get upset before. They’re only human, after all, subject to the same emotions as everyone else. On Bellingham, though, the darker emotions look out of place, making him look intimidating and large. _No, I don’t like it._ Bellingham sighs, asks, “What about your patient, Brice? She gonna be okay?”

“She should be, yes. She’s very lucky to have escaped serious injury.”

“Yeah… yeah, I hear that… Anyway, have a better night, kid.”

“You too, Bellingham.”

“ _Squad 14, are you available?_ ”

“Squad 14, available.”

“ _Squad 14, unknown type injury…_ ”

“Aw shit,” Miller groans, “That’s a frat house. This is gonna be ridiculous…”

Bellingham smirks, “Probably some kid with somethin’ stuck up his ass.”

Brice feels himself smile, agrees, “Probably, yes,” and he and Miller head out to the squad, ready to face whatever they’ll find.

xXxXx

“Have any good runs so far?” Kelly asks when Bob and Zlatkov return.

“Just saw a lady stabbed in the chest and she didn’t realize it,” Zlatkov says.

“She didn’t realize she was stabbed in the chest?”

“I’ve seen it happen before,” Bob explains, “Their adrenaline kicks in and masks the pain. Saw someone once with a broken pelvis tryin’ to walk away from a car wreck.”

“Huh… nah, I get it. Now you mention it, I guess I have seen that before,” Kelly says, “Humans are just awful resilient, aren’t they?”

“That they are, kid.”

Zlatkov disappears into the dorm, leaving Bob and Kelly alone in the dayroom. For a while, they sit in silence, and then Kelly asks, “You okay? You’re awful quiet, Bob.”

“Ah, I guess it’s nothin’ really,” Bob replies, “But it’s not really nothin’, either… if ya know what I mean. Just-… we lost a patient tonight.”

“But you said-“

“That was Brice’s patient. Our guy got beat pretty bad in this brawl, looked like he was doin’ fine, then just crashed in the ambulance… died en route. Just came outta nowhere.”

“Happens like that sometimes, I guess,” Kelly says, “Nothin’ you coulda done.”

“I know, I know… just sucks, is all.”

“Sure does, Bob.”

They enter into a long silence, and it’s an oddly comfortable one. Bob usually prefers some chatter and background noise, prefers to converse with people, but this feels nice, maybe because Kelly is the same way he is. After a few moments, Bob moves to sit by Kelly on the couch. There’s a beat, and Kelly shifts slightly closer to him, putting a small smile on Bob’s face. _Whatever ya need, kid._ He gets the feeling that maybe a little closeness is what the young man needs, and if that’s true, Bob is more than happy to provide it.

“You’ve been at 51s a while now, right, Chet?” he asks finally.

“Yup. Been there… somethin’ like three and a half years now, I think. Kind of a long time to be at one station, but it’s nice,” he replies, “We all work together really well. Only real change we’ve had from Day One was when we changed captains. Started with Cap’n Hammer, then had Cap’n Smith for a little while, and now we have Cap’n Stanley. He’s the best. We’re like a ‘lil family there.”

Something clenches in Bob’s chest, but he doesn’t let it show. He simply says, “That sounds awful nice. I’ve shuffled around a lot. Never been at a station more’n a year since I been in the department.”

“And you been in the department a long time, too… Eh, you’ll find a station like that one day. Only reason it hasn’t happened yet is ‘cause it’s not supposed to. Trust me, you’ll get the right partner, the right group of guys, the right station… You just wait.”

_I’m sick of waiting._

“Yeah that’s what my sister says,” Bob tells him.

“Well, she’s right. Hey, I’m lucky. I know that. Department’s the only family I have, and I got a good one, a good station. I got good friends. And I got it all early in my career. I finished my probie at 110s and spent some time at a brush station, and then this opportunity to join 51s cropped up, so I took it. Not many guys get the chance to open a new station, right?”

“That’s true enough, kid.”

Bob pretends to ignore the casual way in which Kelly said he has no family but the department, filing the information away for later. It may come in handy one day. For now, he just enjoys the moment of calm before he and Zlatkov are called to the next emergency.

xXxXx

It’s after one in the morning when Ivy and Rosie step into their apartment, just returned from a Halloween party. Rosie closes the door behind them, and Ivy quickly pushes her against it, jamming her leg between both of Rosie’s.

“Goddamn, do ya know how hard it was for me not to put my hands all over you all night?” Ivy asks, leaning in and stealing a kiss from her girlfriend, “You just look so hot, babe… especially as Supergirl.”

“Hmm, that’s funny, ‘cause I was just thinkin’ the same thing… how much I wanted to put my hands all up on Wonder Woman all night and how sexy you looked.”

Grinning, Rosie leans in and kisses Ivy slowly but passionately, licking into her mouth almost immediately, not that Ivy has any issues with that. She’s been waiting for this all night. _And so has Rosie apparently._ Ivy catches Rosie’s lips between her teeth, drapes one arm around her shoulders, uses that hand to reach up her skirt and grab her ass. There’s a bit of movement, and Rosie shifts herself so she’s straddling one of Ivy’s legs, rolling her hips to find friction.

“Already gettin’ a ‘lil frisky there, huh?” Ivy smiles, “Should we take it to the bedroom?”

“You read my mind, baby. Just make it quick, ‘cause I’m ready to blow.”

 _Fuck._ Ivy can already feel her pulse throbbing in her pussy, feel herself becoming wet with arousal. Murmuring, “Not sure I’ll make it that far,” she kisses Rosie again, tonguing deeply into her lover’s mouth and beginning to strip off her costume. She trails kisses down Rosie’s throat.

“Damn… You-… You really wanna do this on the couch then?”

“Absolutely.”

“C’mon, other people sit on that couch.”

“Then get a towel. I wanna fuck you on the couch.”

“Then you hafta let me go get a towel, Ivy,” she smirks, “I’ll make it quick.”

Ivy reluctantly lets her go, pouting, pulling off her plastic tiara. _Rosie likes to pull hair, after all. Better give her full access._ An eternity seems to pass before Rosie returns. She seductively leans over the couch to place the towel, wiggling her ass at Ivy, and Ivy can’t take it anymore. She grabs Rosie’s hips and spins her around, pushing her down onto the couch, ravaging her mouth. Rosie moans underneath her, one hand fisting in Ivy’s hair. A wave of heat and arousal floods Ivy’s system. Her teeth catch on Rosie’s lip as her hands fumble with the fastenings on the Supergirl costume, desperate to remove it, and Rosie giggles against her lips.

“A ‘lil help would be appreciated,” Ivy grumbles.

“Oh, but you’re doin’ so well, baby. Besides, I like you when you’re desperate.”

“I get too much more desperate, and I’m gonna ruin both these costumes. I’m already soakin’ through mine, and I’m about to rip yours off.”

“Okay, okay… Better get yours off, too.”

Ivy strips with inelegant speed while Rosie takes her time, gracefully pulling off each item with a little wiggle. She gets halfway done before Ivy can’t take it anymore and helps her out of her clothes. Licking her lips, Ivy looks over her lover, taking in the newly revealed skin, all rich and dark and smooth. _Incredible._ She leans in to kiss and nip along her throat, her hands roaming all over the lithe body beneath her.

“God, you’re so fuckin’ beautiful, babe,” Ivy murmurs, “You know that?”

“I oughta, with how often you tell me- oh!”

She gasps as Ivy slips a finger inside her. With a smile, Ivy returns her lips to Rosie’s skin, kissing across the top of her chest, saying, “You’re so wet already. Think you mighta ruined your costume, too, with such a wet pussy…”

Another finger slips in, both slowly fucking her. Rosie lets out a soft whimper. It’s music to Ivy’s ears. She dips her head and gives all her attention to one of Rosie’s breasts, small and beautifully round, tipped with a dark nipple already peaked from arousal. Her lips work their way around the nipple, not wanting to touch it just yet. She wants to prolong the pleasure for both of them.

Ivy loves this. She loves making Rosie feel good, loves watching her fall apart, loves knowing she’s the only one who gets to make her feel this way. It’s intoxicating. She keeps fucking her with her fingers at the same slow pace and finally sucks hard on the nipple. The keening whimper Rosie lets out goes straight to Ivy’s pussy, which already throbs with need. _She’s just so beautiful. I can’t believe she’s all mine._ She adds a third finger.

“I used to dream about this,” Ivy tells her, “Used to dream about fuckin’ you, about eatin’ you out, everything. Still feels like a dream sometimes, really.”

“I know the- the feeling. Pined after you a long time,” Rosie breathes.

“Then I might as well give ya somethin’ else to dream about…”

With no further preamble, Ivy kneels down between Rosie’s legs, hungrily eyeing the dark lips beneath a thatch of black hair, glistening with wetness. _So beautiful._ She licks a slow stripe up the slit, pausing only to flick her tongue over Rosie’s clit a couple times, reveling in the whimpering sounds dropping from Rosie’s mouth. Even in her dreams, Ivy never dreamed it would be this good. Fingers still fucking, Ivy licks her again before turning all her attention on the clit, the little nub peeking out from under its hood, begging to be sucked.

Above her, Rosie moans wantonly, her fingers tightening in Ivy’s hair. The mixed sensations of pain and pleasure pulse through Ivy’s body straight to her pussy, where she can feel more wetness accumulating. She focuses on Rosie’s sensitive clit, knowing it will quickly bring her to climax. Ivy uses every trick she has- licking, flicking, sucking- and it’s not long before her girlfriend is a beautiful, writhing, moaning mess.

“Yeah, baby!” she gasps, “Ivy-! Yes, right there! Oh my- Fuck! I’m gonna cum!”

She clenches around Ivy’s fingers. Her thighs press in on either side of Ivy’s head. Her body rolls and writhes. She gives wordless cries of pleasure, almost screaming as her muscles quiver. _I’ve done my job._ Grinning, Ivy sits up, licking her lips and fingers before leaning in to kiss Rosie, eagerly sliding her tongue in past her lips.

“Hmm, yeah, I’m gonna dream about that for some time,” Rosie smirks.

“At least until the next time I give you a mindblowing orgasm.”

“Exactly. Now… I think it’s time I return the favor and give you a ‘lil somethin’ to dream about too, baby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never written femmeslash before so I hope this was okay. If anyone has any feedback related to that, please let me know :)


	14. Not the Best Start to the Year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little late because i had a lot going on today but here it :)
> 
> warnings: some language, seizures

New Year’s Day is always a bit of a mixed bag in terms of runs. People are either too hung over to do anything or too ready to get started on their resolutions to do nothing, making the day either boring or unrelenting. New Year’s Day 1974 is going for unrelenting so far. Since the shift started at eight, Brice and his current partner at 99s A-shift have been running nonstop, Ortega’s temper getting shorter with every run. Brice has been assured this is perfectly normal, but it doesn’t make him feel any better. _I just have to deal with it._ So Brice sucks it up and deals with it. He’s been on the wrong end of much worse abuse, after all, so a little name calling here and there doesn’t really faze him.

In the early afternoon, they’re called to a residence for an unknown injury.

“Number 4251 is here on the righ-“

“Shit, is that smoke?”

“It certainly looks like it.”

Swearing again, Ortega picks up the radio and calls for an engine, and dispatch replies, “ _10-4, Squad 99… Station 51, report to a possible fire at Squad 99’s location…_ ”

Brice leaves the squad, going to the porch to peek into the windows, trying to see any potential victims inside. He can’t see the glow of fire or smell acrid smoke, but that doesn’t explain where all this smoke is coming from. _Where could they be? And what could possibly have happened?_ Moving to another window, Brice peers in, straining to see past the white smoke.

“Ortega! I can see one victim on the floor inside who appears to be having convulsions,” Brice calls, “Wait there! I’ll bring him out!”

The door is miraculously unlocked. Brice quickly pushes it open and goes in, rounding a corner to locate the victim. The man on the floor is in the throes of a particularly violent series of convulsions, back arching high off the ground. Something niggles in the back of Brice’s mind, something that tells him it’s not right, but he forces it down. He just works on removing the patient from the room and getting him outside. Then everything will be okay. It’s a little difficult with the way the man is seizing and the sudden tightness in his own neck and jaw, but he manages to get him off the porch, Ortega jogging up to help him.

Brice pauses, looking up. Station 51 arrived while he was inside. He becomes suddenly aware of his muscles twitching under his skin, steadily increasing, leaning towards painful. Someone’s sirens are still wailing. The sun is unusually bright. There’s a ringing in his ears, a metallic taste in his mouth, his vision starting to grey as the pain from his muscle spasms ratchets up. _Shit. This is bad._ He looks over at some of the guys from 51s, who are all looking at him strangely, and says, “Don’t go in there.”

Everything goes black.

xXxXx

Roy eases the squad into a spot behind 99s, seeing Ortega sitting outside. Johnny hops out as the engine pulls in, says, “Hey, Manny! Where’s Walt?”

“Oh, Walter’s on vacation. Got a temp.”

“Who’s that?”

“Brice.”

Roy hears his partner groan beside him. Johnny’s not particularly fond of Brice, not since that Christmas they had to work together. That’s not to say Roy is too fond of him, either, but he can usually tolerate him. _We’ll see if today counts as ‘usually.’_ Brice is smart, there’s no denying that, and Roy is often impressed with his knowledge and skill, but it does get rather annoying to have Brice be right all the time and be perfect and be incredible at his job.

“Then where’s Brice?” Roy asks.

“Inside. Said the vic was havin’ a fit of some kind and went in to get ‘em.”

“With all that smoke? Did he suit up?”

“Now why would Brice think so far ahead?”

Roy’s gut twists uncomfortably, but he can’t put his finger on what’s bothering him. Maybe it’s that he can’t smell smoke. Maybe it’s the seizure.

“You okay, Roy?” Johnny asks.

“I just-… I dunno. Something’s not right.”

Brown eyes peer into his questioningly, and he wishes he had an answer. Both turn their eyes to the front porch, waiting for Brice to come out. When he does, he’s all but dragging the convulsing man out, and Ortega hurries up to assist him, taking over treatment. Ortega has to. Brice stops about halfway along the front walk. Roy’s gut twists again, more forcefully this time. He watches the young paramedic sway in place, his limbs jerking faintly, muscles jumping under his skin. Pale eyes gloss over behind his glasses, and his voice is strained when he says, “Don’t go in there.”

Those pale, glassy eyes roll back in his head. Brice hits the ground hard, his whole body tense, back arching off the ground for a few seconds before he begins shaking. Roy and Johnny swear, both rushing toward him. Roy vaguely hears Cap call for a hazmat team. _What the hell is happening?_ He carefully rolls Brice onto his side, wanting to treat him as tenderly as he would any other patient even if he does get annoyed with the young man a lot of the time. There’s a strange cry as Brice’s chest muscles constrict, forcing the air out of his lungs and up his throat. Almost as an afterthought, Roy reaches down and pulls off Brice’s glasses so they don’t get broken.

“Rampart, this is Squad 51,” Johnny calls.

“ _Squad 51, go ahead._ ”

“Rampart, we’re on location with Squad 99. We have a second victim, male, age twenty-four, currently having a grand mal seizure.”

“ _51, confirm, you have a second seizure patient?_ ”

“Affirmative. He exited a structure with the first victim, then looked, uh, unsteady on his feet, and told us ‘Don’t go in there’ before collapsing and seizing. Uh… we have called for a hazmat team.”

“ _10-4, 51. Transport both victims as soon as possible and monitor their airways._ ”

“Cap!” Roy shouts, “Call for another ambulance!” then turns to Johnny, saying, “Go double check on Ortega. Make sure he’s alright. We don’t know what was in that house.”

Johnny quickly obeys, jogging away on long legs, leaving Roy with Brice. He checks his watch. About three minutes have passed since Brice’s seizure began. There’s two minutes until Roy really needs to worry. For now, he can’t do much else besides sit back and wait for the seizure to end.

“He’s still goin’?” Johnny asks when he comes back.

“Yeah… Yeah, he’s comin’ up on five minutes now,” Roy answers, turns to Cap, “What’s the ETA on that ambulance?”

“Two minutes, Roy!”

Roy swears quietly, returns his attention to the still seizing paramedic. _Seven minutes is too long, much too long._ He reaches down and brushes some strands of brown hair from Brice’s forehead. Brice is even younger than Johnny, though not by much, and the awful twisting has returned to Roy’s stomach.

“He knew something was wrong,” Roy murmurs.

“What?”

“He knew something was wrong, but he went in anyway… and then he warned us. I hate to say it, but he’s a really good kid, Junior.”

“And I hate to agree with ya… but he is.”

He’s fairly certain he sees something like respect and admiration in Johnny’s eyes as he looks down at Brice. The young man is finally starting to calm down, the worst of the convulsions petering out at last, just as the ambulance pulls up for them. Roy and Johnny load him into the back of the ambulance, Roy climbing in beside him. Brice muscles are still tense and twitching, but he’s no longer fully convulsing. Halfway to Rampart, he starts to come around, blinking slowly. He lets out a quiet moan and struggles weakly against the gurney straps, stopping only when Roy lays a hand on his flank. _Jesus, his muscles are so tight it feels like they’ll break._ Brice is beginning to shake again, so Roy simply rubs his side a bit, tells him, “Don’t worry, kid. You’re gonna be alright. We’re taking care of you.”

Roy hopes Brice can hear him and understand.

xXxXx

Ivy hasn’t been at her happiest the last couple of days. Rosie has been away on vacation with her family. Craig has been picking up extra shifts here and there. Out of a sheer need not to be home alone, Ivy has been picking up extra shifts herself at dispatch. New Year’s Eve and Day were popular for some of the single girls to take off (along with some of the single cops), so Ivy’s expecting a nice fat paycheck next week, one she fully intends to spoil Rosie with.

The shifts she’s working do have some people she doesn’t necessarily know or like, but New Year’s Day is her regular shift, and so her friends are here. One of them is Pete Malloy. The cop is a bit of a skirtchaser and always flirts with her, though it’s evolved into a sort of good-natured flirting that both of them understood would go nowhere. Currently, Malloy is trapped at the station, riding a desk until his dislocated shoulder heals. _Managed to get himself a spot near dispatch, though. I noticed that._ He’s a good guy. Ivy enjoys spending time with him when possible, slipping out to his desk when she can.

It’s not unusual for him to wander into dispatch, too, so when he strides into the room in the afternoon, Ivy isn’t concerned. She just smiles up at the redhead, prepares her next quip for him… until she gets a good look at his face. His expression is almost grim, and Ivy feels her stomach roll. She tries to cover with some humor, says, “What’s with the long face, Pete? Turned down for another date?”

He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile. Her stomach rolls again. Malloy simply steps close, leans in, quietly tells her, “There’s a phone call for you from Rampart.”

Her first thought is that Rosie is hurt until she remembers that Rosie is nowhere near Rampart. _So it’s Craig. Craig’s hurt._ For a moment, she just blinks up at Malloy, stuck between wanting to know and not. Craig is Schrödinger’s Fireman right now: simultaneously alive and dead in her mind. Malloy quickly takes pity on her, holds out his freckled hand to help her stand. Ivy fixes a steady look on her face, walks with a steady gait, Malloy at her side. Outside dispatch, he places a hand on her shoulder, squeezes it as a gesture of reassurance.

“Hello, this is Ivy Bowens.”

“ _Miss Bowens, it’s Nurse McCall from Rampart._ ”

“Is it Craig? Is he alright?” Ivy asks.

“ _Well, right now he’s in ICU,_ ” Nurse McCall replies, and Ivy sighs, her eyes slipping shut.

_This can’t be happening. It cannot be happening._ She scrubs at her face. Nurse McCall continues, “ _Now, we think he’s gonna be fine, but he’ll be here for at least a few days, maybe more. We’d really appreciate you coming in to talk with us, Miss Bowens._ ”

“Yeah… yeah, absolutely,” she replies, scrubbing at her face once more, “I can be there in, uh… I can be there in, like, fifteen or twenty minutes, I think. Is that alright?”

“ _If that’s alright with you. I’ll meet you at the front desk when you arrive._ ”

“That’s fine… Thank you, Nurse McCall, I’ll be there soon.”

Hanging up the phone, Ivy heaves another sigh and drops her head into her hands. Malloy’s big settles on her shoulder, squeezing gently. She takes a moment to compose herself and picks up her head to look at him. The green eyes are full of sympathy.

“Everything alright, Ivy?”

“My idiot, paramedic best friend is in the ICU, and the nurse didn’t tell me what’s wrong over the phone. Just- Pete, do me a favor and tell someone what happened. I- I gotta get to Rampart.”

“Do you need a ride? I could use my lunch to take you,” he offers.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll be okay. Just tell Lipton I left and why and get Mayfield to cover my station,” she tells him, rising from the chair and heading for the door.

There’s a quiet, “Hey, c’mere,” and Malloy steps up, wrapping his free arm around her in a gentle hug. She leans into him, letting the warmth seep into her body. It feels nice.

“It’s all gonna be alright,” Malloy tells her, “He’s gonna be alright, and you’re gonna be alright, Ivy. Here, I’m gonna give ya my number and Jim’s number, and I want you to call one of us if you need anything, especially tonight or tomorrow night, okay?”

“I won’t be interrupting a hot date?”

“You’re the hottest date in town, babe,” he says lightly, then more seriously, “I mean it, though. Whatever you need, you give Jim or me a call. I’ll let him know what’s goin’ on.”

“Thank you, Pete. I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome. Now get goin’. I’ll see ya around.”

Ivy gives him another hug and heads out, stopping only to grab her bag, ignoring anyone who spoke to her. _Pete’ll tell ‘em. They’ll understand._ Once outside, she only allows her lip to wobble a little bit as she starts her car, forcing the emotion down. This is not the time for it, not when she has to drive. There will be time for emotion later. For now, she simply makes her way to Rampart, praying to any deity listening that Craig will be okay. When she arrives, Ivy makes her way to the desk, says, “I’m looking for Nurse McCall. She said she would meet me here.”

“Oh, I’m Nurse McCall.”

She’s a beautiful woman, blonde hair and big blue eyes and long lashes. Ivy would appreciate her more if the situation weren’t so serious. Nurse McCall shakes her hand and leads her to the elevator, taking her to ICU.

“Miss Bowens, we’re just waiting for the bloodwork,” McCall explains, “Dr. Brackett should be back with it shortly. In the meantime, I’d like you to meet Roy DeSoto and Johnny Gage. Roy, Johnny, this is Miss Bowens, Brice’s friend.”

“Wait? Are you Brice’s-“

“Johnny!” DeSoto hisses, “This is not the time.”

“No, I’m not his girlfriend,” Ivy says, “He’s just my friend… but we are close. I’ve known him almost four years now… and I would really like to know what happened.”

“Well, we arrived at the scene a few minutes after Brice and his partner did,” DeSoto explains, “Seems Brice and Ortega were called to an unknown injury, and when they arrived, they saw smoke, so they called for another station. That’s when we showed up. Ortega said Brice went in because he saw someone on the floor having a seizure. He pulled the fella out, handed him off, told us not to go inside… and then he just- he collapsed and started seizing himself.”

“But he doesn’t have seizures. He doesn’t have epilepsy or nothin’ like that.”

“That’s what’s so concerning, that and the fact that the other patient was seizing, too. Makes us think there was some kind of convulsant released in the house.”

“Well, how the hell did that happen? That’s not just layin’ around the store.”

“It could be,” Gage says, “Strychnine’s a powerful convulsant, and it’s pretty easy to get ‘cause it’s used as pesticide for rodents and stuff. It ain’t the easiest to get, but it’s doable. Not sure why the fella was usin’ it like that, though.”

“Yeah, it was like he was tryin’ to gas himself or somethin’…”

“Is Craig gonna be okay?” Ivy asks.

DeSoto steps closer, smiling softly, and tells her, “Rampart’s the absolute best, Miss Bowens, and Brice is getting the best care possible. I know he’s gonna be just fine.”

“Mostly ‘cause he’s stubborn as a mule,” Gage adds.

“Oh, Craig’s stubborn, alright… but he’s good. He’s a good friend,” Ivy says.

“He certainly was today. Y’know, he saved our lives, Johnny.”

“S’pose he did, yeah…”

Gage looks down at his boots, almost shy. _I know a lotta guys in the department haven’t been too kind to Brice… might be why he looks so guilty,_ She doesn’t begrudge them for it right now, though. It’s neither the place nor the time. At least they know better now, and at least they saved his life.

They all look to the elevator when it opens, a brown-haired doctor stepping out, asking, “Dix, have you located Brice’s next of kin yet? I wanna talk to ‘em.”

“I did. Kel, this is Miss Bowens. Miss Bowens, this is Dr. Brackett.”

Dr. Brackett shakes her hand, asks, “Miss Bowens, are you Brice’s family?”

“I might as well be.”

“I’d really prefer to speak with a relative-“

“Good luck. They all live in Florida, and from what I understand, they wouldn’t care if they were here,” Ivy explains, “I’m all he’s got.”

She ignores the look Gage and DeSoto share, ignores the little twinge in her gut that says perhaps she revealed more than Craig would like. Dr. Brackett raises his eyebrows a little, says, “Alright then, Miss Bowens… it appears Brice is suffering from strychnine poisoning.”

“Is it bad? Is he gonna be okay?” she asks.

“He should be alright. Strychnine is a convulsant, typically used as a pesticide for rodents and birds. The way it works is that the muscles convulse and constrict so hard they restrict breathing and blood flow. In humans, it can cause muscle spasms, cramping, stiffness, and as we saw with Brice, seizures,” Brackett explains, “We’ve got Brice intubated to protect his airway, got an IV in to keep him hydrated, and we’re keeping the room as quiet and dark as possible to prevent any more convulsions.”

“There isn’t some kinda antidote you can give him?”

“Unfortunately not. All we can do for him is give him some support. He didn’t receive a particularly large dose, so he should recover just fine and recover fairly quickly. You can sit with him if you’d like, but we just ask you to be as quiet as possible… and of course, you’ll have to leave when visiting hours are done.”

“That’s fine. Just-… is there a phone I can use?”

“Right over here,” McCall says.

Ivy takes a minute to call Rosie, just so she knows what’s going on, and then goes in to sit with Craig, quietly asking, “What are visiting hours, Nurse McCall?”

“From eight to eight. And please, Miss Bowens, call me Dixie.”

“I’m Ivy. I expect we’ll see plenty of each other.”

“Oh, he’ll be here less than a week, I think,” Dixie tells her, “Once the poison is out of his system, most of the recovery time is for other complications like pain or pulled muscles, things like that. It’s like Johnny and Roy said, though. Brice is stubborn. He’s gonna be fine.”

A well-manicured hand squeezes Ivy’s shoulder, and Dixie heads out of the darkened room. The machinery beeps quietly. It feels surreal, like a nightmare she once had and had since forgotten. There’s a soft knock. DeSoto comes in, whispers, “Here… I almost forgot to return these,” and hands her Craig’s glasses. Ivy feels her lip wobble and ducks her head, thanking him quietly. He squeezes her shoulder, too.

“We’re thinkin’ about him. I told Dixie to call us when he wakes up. He’ll be okay.”

“I know, I know…”

“He’s lucky to have a friend like you, Miss Bowens… very lucky indeed.”

DeSoto goes as quietly as he came, leaving Ivy alone again. She carefully places the glasses on the little side table. _That way he’ll them when he wakes up._ Finally, looking around the small room, seeing her unconscious best friend hooked up to all kinds of wires, Ivy allows herself to let out some emotion. Her lip trembles, tears slipping down her face. She reaches out and takes his hand, his fingers rough, and just holds it, watching his muscles twitch under his skin.

“Helluva way to spend New Year’s Day, Craig,” she murmurs, “Always gotta complicate shit, don’t ya…”

xXxXx

Bob winces as Early slips the needle into his palm, pain from the cut not distracting from the sting of the anesthetic. _Still can’t believe I was that dumb._

“Sure did a number on your hand here, Bob,” Early smiles, “What happened?”

“Fella had a knife and was threatenin’ to cut himself, and when I had the chance, I grabbed it and got it away from him… Just grabbed the wrong end, unfortunately.”

“Guess I can’t make too much fun since we rarely have to treat you.”

He gives a quiet hum in response. _I am definitely one lucky son of a bitch._ Lots of guys in the department go without major injury, but for all the dangerous situations he’s been in, Bob is certainly pushing his luck. It’s only a matter of time before he’s hurt bad, but for now, he’ll just deal with his sliced palm.

Early makes quick work of the stitches and wraps Bob’s hand in a bandage, giving him the rules for his stitches without much reason. Bob knows them well.

“Alright, well, I’m all done,” Early tells him, “Apparently, it’s been a bad day for paramedics today.”

“Yeah? Who else got hurt?”

“Craig Brice. He’s up in ICU.”

Bob feels his stomach twist, asks, “Brice is in ICU? What the hell happened?”

“According to Kel, it was strychnine poisoning. Guy somehow filled his house with strychnine gas, started convulsing, and when Brice went in to rescue him, he breathed in the gas and had a seizure himself. He’s lucky Gage and DeSoto were there.”

“Yeah… Yeah, sounds like it… Say, you think I could go up and see him?”

“I don’t see why not, Bob.”

Early bids him farewell, and Bob heads up to ICU, his stomach rolling faintly. _Poor kid…_ He finds the boy’s room easily enough. The lights are dimmed, most of the light coming from the machinery he’s hooked up to. He looks small and asleep, almost like a child, his glasses folded on the table beside him.

“You know Craig?”

Bob turns. A young woman looks up at him, her dark blonde hair in a messy bun, dark green sweater hanging off her thick frame.

“Yeah… uh, I’m Bob Bellingham. I’m a paramedic.”

“I can see that. So you’ve worked with Craig?”

“Not properly. We’ve been on a lotta the same runs, though,” he says.

“He’s mentioned you a couple times. I’m Ivy Bowens, by the way,” she says.

“I’m afraid I haven’t heard much about you, Miss Bowens.”

“I figured. He doesn’t talk about me much. Doesn’t want people gettin’ the wrong idea about our relationship… which is just friendship,” she explains, “He’s a little funny that way, but… well, that’s just Craig, I guess.”

Giving a quiet agreement, Bob asks, “Why’s it so dark in there?”

“Doctor said it’s best for him to be in a quiet, dark room for a bit, that it’d cut down on the possibility of more seizures. I’m assuming you know what happened?”

“Yeah, Dr. Early told me. He gonna be okay?”

“They tell me he’ll be fine. Not exactly sure when he’ll wake up, but I’ve been assured he’ll be okay.”

He mumbles, “Good, good,” and looks back in on Brice, watches the monitors, the steady rise and fall of his chest. _He looks vulnerable._ Bob fights the shiver that rolls up his spine but doesn’t quite win. If Miss Bowens notices, she says nothing. They just stand together, looking in on the young man in the bed. It’s not a place Bob ever wants to see him again. _But I think he’s unlucky in that regard._ The first time they met, Bob treated a cut on Brice’s head. Brice got a split lip once at Christmas a couple years ago. He’d seen Brice with a variety of injuries over the summer that likely weren’t from runs (which pissed Bob off to no end). Some guys are lucky and some are unlucky. It’s just the way of the world.

Checking his watch, Bob tells Miss Bowens, “Hey, visiting hours are almost over. If you’re leavin’, I’d be happy to walk you out to your car.”

“Thanks, that’d be nice. I’m just gonna go in and tell Craig goodnight and I’ll see him tomorrow.”

“I thought you said he wasn’t awake yet.”

“He isn’t,” she admits, “but he’d appreciate it. He’d say it’s only polite. I’ll be right back.”

She goes into the dark room and slowly walks over to the bed. Bob watches her slide her hand into Brice’s, lean low to whisper to him, her free hand carding through his brown hair, and she presses a kiss to his forehead before leaving.

“So… just friends?” Bob asks.

“Yeah, we’re just friends,” she answers as they enter the elevator, “He’s a great guy, and I love him, but Craig’s not my type.”

“And what is your type, if ya don’t mind me askin’?”

“Honestly?” she pauses, looking him over briefly, tells him, “It’s girls.”

She looks up to Bob’s face, gauging his reaction. He just agrees, “I can see why Brice ain’t your type then… and why ya don’t want people thinkin’ he is. Your secret’s safe with me, kid.”

“Thanks… say, what’d you do to your hand, Bellingham?” Miss Bowens asks.

“Oh, nothin’ really interesting. Just took a knife away from a guy.”

“Sounds badass.”

“Not really. Woulda been badass if I didn’t cut my hand open, but I wasn’t really thinkin’. I just reached out and grabbed it before he cut himself, but I grabbed the blade.”

“I dunno, I still think it sounds pretty badass.”

“Well, I appreciate that, Miss Bowens.”

They exit the elevator and step into the corridor. Before they can walk over to Bob’s partner, Miss Bowens stops and says, “I really appreciate you checkin’ in on Craig like that. I know a lotta guys in the department don’t like him very much, so it’s nice to see someone who kinda cares about him. Like it was nice to see you and, uh, Gage and DeSoto, nice to see y’all here to make sure he’s okay. I’m gonna tell him you were here.”

“I hope you do. Here, lemme walk ya out.”

“Thanks, but I’ll be alright. I gotta make a phone call, anyway… but if ya really wanna walk me to my car sometime, I’ll be here tomorrow all day.”

“Then I’ll come visit tomorrow, and I’ll walk ya out tomorrow night. Deal?”

“Deal.”

They bid each other farewell, and Bob watches her walk over to the payphone, hears her say, “Hello, Jim? It’s Ivy… Yeah, sorry it’s a bit late… Listen, I’ve had a pretty bad day, and Pete told me to call if I need anything, and I figured he was with you and Jean and Jimmy…”

Bob goes to his partner, holding up his bandaged hand in mock shame, knowing he won’t be working for at least a week. _At least I’ll be able to check in on Brice._

xXxXx

It’s dark. _Only because my eyes are closed._ Brice doesn’t open them, though. His whole body aches, throbbing as if he’d done nothing but work out for an entire day, and his throat feels as raw as if he’d screamed the whole time, too. Perhaps he did. He doesn’t exactly remember what happened to him. _Think…_ It hurts to think too hard, so he stops. It doesn’t matter anyway. Brice is vaguely comfortable for the time being and decides not to trouble himself over it. There’s a soft beeping that comforts him, quiet and barely there and soothing in its repetition. He just lets the sounds wash over him and tries to forget his pain.

“Brice? Brice, can you hear me? Can you open your eyes for me?”

_Dixie._ A gentle hand smoothes over his brow, brushing back his hair. He leans into the touch almost without realizing it, desperate for the contact, hears a quiet laugh.

“C’mon, tiger, open those eyes for me. I’m just checkin’ on ya,” Dixie says.

Not wanting to disappoint her, Brice slowly forces his eyes open, blinking even though the room is dark. _Why is the room so dark?_ His eyes take a long moment to focus as well as they can on Dixie. She’s just far enough away to be hazy, but Brice can still discern the soft expression on her face. She smiles, says, “There we go, Brice. That’s what I like to see. How you feelin’ today?”

“Tired…” he croaks, “Hurts…”

“What hurts?”

“Ev- umm… everything… ‘m achy…”

“Do you remember what happened?”

He shakes his head. Dixie’s smile gets a little softer, her hand stroking over his brow again.

“First of all, you were very brave… or very stupid. We aren’t sure which yet, honestly. Dr. Brackett’s going to come up soon, and he’ll fill you in all the way, but I’ll tell you this much,” she says, “You saved a lotta lives, Craig. I want you to know that.”

The door opens, and Dr. Brackett steps into view, asking, “How are you feeling, Brice?”

“Tol’… Tol’ Dixie… Jus’ tired an’ achy…”

“Do you remember what happened?”

“No.”

“Well, I suppose the most basic way to put it is that you got strychnine poisoning,” Brackett tells him, “We’re still waiting on the other victim to wake up, but from what we can gather, he made a-a smoke bomb of some kind. What for, we have no idea. He coulda been trying to kill himself or someone else, or he coulda been trying to make a bug bomb. We just won’t know until he wakes up. What I do know is that what you did was incredibly dangerous and stupid. Why did you go into that house without an air mask?”

“He was sei- seizing,” Brice replies, “Had to help.”

“And you started seizing, too. You better thank Gage and DeSoto for saving you, Brice… but… but they oughta thank you, too, because you kept them outta that house. Now, lemme take your vitals, and then I’ll leave you alone for a bit…”

True to his word, Brackett works quickly, leaving Brice with Dixie and some pain medication. Brice grills Dixie a bit more (he doesn’t remember waking up last night and them removing a tracheal tube) before finally looking around the room, and while everything is blurry, he can tell they’re alone.

“Dixie… where… where’s Ivy?”

“I imagine she’ll be here at eight, right on time for visiting hours. She was awful worried, y’know. We all were. Scared Roy and Johnny half to death… and Bellingham came up to check on you, too,” she tells him, “Hey, you need to get some rest. That pain medicine’ll help you sleep.”

“But I wanna see Ivy when-“

“She’ll understand, Craig. Just get some sleep for now.”

Dixie strokes his hair once more, and a moment later, Brice feels the pain medication seep into his bloodstream. His eyes slip shut. When they open again, the room is still dim, the beeping of the machines still quiet. The pain isn’t as bad as last time, now just a dull ache he can better ignore.

“Craig? Craig, are you awake?”

He feels himself smile. Ivy grins at him from his bedside, and he realizes she’s holding his hand. Squeezing back, he gives her a rough, “H’llo, Ivy.”

“Hello yourself, you dumb asshole,” she replies, though there’s no malice in the insult, “Ya almost got yourself killed, y’know that?”

“ ‘ve heard… didn’ mean t’scare you.”

“Well, ya did. And ya scared Nurse McCall and them two paramedics, Gage and DeSoto, and that Bellingham fella. What were you thinkin’?”

“Jus’ wanted to help…”

“Of course ya did, babe… of course ya did.”

Ivy sits back in her chair but doesn’t let go of his hand. It’s nice to know someone cares for him so much… to know that someone loves him.

“Hey, you’re awake!”

Bellingham steps into the room, his left hand bandaged. He strolls right over and ruffles Brice’s hair. Warmth floods Brice’s body, contentment sitting comfortably in his belly. _Yes… it’s nice to be loved._ Brice lays back and enjoys his company.

 


	15. Just an Observation (or Two or Three)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: strong sexual content, some strong language
> 
> (sorry this is late tonight i've just had a long week that isn't quite over yet.. thanks to Nancy for reminding me it's that time :)

It’s fairly early in the morning when Ivy blinks awake, instinctively hearing the apartment door open, then the bedroom door. She grins and rolls over, smiling as her girlfriend undresses.

“You been up all night waitin’ for me, baby?” Rosie smirks.

“Nah, I just woke up… heard ya come in.”

“And you woke up just for me? How sweet.”

“I know. I’m like sugar… Now, hurry up and come to bed. I wanna snuggle,” Ivy whines.

“I wanna snuggle you, too, sugar… maybe a ‘lil more if you’re up for it.”

Her wicked smirk is enough to wake Ivy a bit more. _Goddamn I love this woman._ Offering up a sly smile of her own, Ivy moves the blankets just enough to show Rosie she’s already naked. Rosie climbs into bed and spoons up against Ivy, lips immediately kissing along the back of her neck and shoulders. Hands roam and caress her body, all over her breasts and abdomen and hips, carefully avoiding the one place Ivy really wants her to touch.

“I missed you last night, Rosie,” Ivy tells her quietly, “Bed felt empty.”

“I needed the money…and they needed someone to cover the shift… worked out well for everyone.”

“Mm… everyone but me.”

“Well, I’m gonna spend that money on you soon, so…”

Rosie sucks a hickey into Ivy’s shoulder, making her gasp, pleasure rolling through her system. Her pussy begins to throb lightly, already damp. Ivy opens her mouth to speak, to beg Rosie to touch her, but Rosie beats her to the punch. Two fingers slip inside her and quickly find her g-spot. A loud moan drops from her lips as Rosie’s fingers work inside her, thrusting and stroking and teasing. _Fuck, I really love her._ Rosie works slowly and methodically, but that’s what really drives Ivy crazy, what gets her off the fastest.

Reaching back, Ivy manages to swipe her fingers over Rosie’s wet pussy before pressing them to her clit. Rosie sucks in a sharp breath. _Perfect._ Neither of them will last much longer now. Rosie’s movements are already becoming more erratic, a third finger sliding in. Ivy starts rocking her hips, seeking her own pleasure and Rosie’s.

“Yeah, baby,” Rosie breathes, “Fuck yourself just like that. Fuck yourself on my fingers…”

Ivy can’t even form words at this point. There’s a wall of pleasure in her mind, blocking out everything but the fingers in her pussy and the body behind her. She can feel her orgasm building, can feel the pressure in her groin and lower back, and she knows Rosie can feel it, too. Ivy just keeps moving until it hits. Her orgasm breaks over her like a wave, her body rolling, muscles trembling, broken groans slipping past her lips. Rosie isn’t far behind, her usual sob-like moans in Ivy’s ear.

When they both finally come down off their high, Ivy twists herself around, pressing her lips to Rosie’s for a soft kiss. Her sleepiness is coming back.

“Baby, I love you,” Ivy mumbles, snuggling closer to her.

“You still gonna love me when I’m old and we ain’t fuckin’ all the time?”

“I’m gonna love ya even if we’re young and not fuckin’ all the time.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Cross my heart…”

“Good… and I love you, too, sugar.”

If Rosie says anything after that, Ivy doesn’t hear it, sleep quickly taking her over once more.

xXxXx

“Hey, Brice, what are you doin’ here?”

Brice turns. Kelly walks over to him in the small parking lot, grinning as usual.

“I decided to pick up a shift today,” Brice answers, “I’m switching to C-shift, so I have a couple of days off in a row, and I just prefer to work.”

“Who ya in for?”

“I’m actually working for Lopez today.”

“You’re workin’ as a lineman today?”

“Sometimes it’s nice to get back to basics… but I also heard that you were having trouble finding temporary replacements, though I’m unsure why, Kelly.”

“Oh, you just wait,” Kelly tells him, leading him inside, “Stoker hasn’t shown up yet.”

Brice actually pauses in his steps, looking at Kelly.

“I cannot imagine Stoker being a problem. He’s always been very kind to me.”

Kelly gives a quick, humorless laugh and says, “Well, imagine it, pal. Stoker’s in a fuckin’ mood every single day now. Comes in and brings all our moods down. I’m a ‘lil jealous of Johnny and Roy, honestly. They can escape him. Me an’ Cap an’ whatever poor sucker’s here for Marco are stuck with him the whole time.”

“Why is he coming in with such a negative attitude?”

“Beats the hell outta me,” Kelly shrugs, “Just worried about Marco, I guess.”

_He’s not being entirely truthful, but he’s not exactly lying, either._ Brice can tell he’s leaving out some information, but with Kelly, there’s usually a pretty good reason for him to something out. He loves to talk and share information, so whatever he leaves out is usually important and likely secret. Kelly shows him to a locker, sitting on the bench by him.

“What did you do?”

“What?”

“What did you do to the locker, Kelly?”

“Nothin’! I didn’t even know who was comin’ in today! And honestly, with how everyone’s on pins and needles around here, pranks are a big no-no at the moment,” he replies, “I’m all about self preservation, babe.”

Still, Brice stands aside when he opens the locker, is relieved when nothing happens. Kelly remains nearby as Brice changes into his uniform, so Brice decides to do a little investigative questioning to figure why Stoker is in such a bad mood. It likely has something to do with the little things he noticed during his Christmas shift here a couple years ago.

“I suppose Stoker’s worry for Lopez is not misplaced,” he says, trying to sound offhand, “They are fairly close, from my understanding. Don’t they live together?”

“Yeah, they split an apartment… have for a couple years now, I think.”

“It makes sense for him to be concerned for his friend… though if they share an apartment, he would see him every day, would know he’s progressing and getting better.”

“Marco’s actually stayin’ with his sister. She’s a nurse, so we all kinda figured it’d be for the best. Y’know, she can take care of him if anything’s wrong, shit like that,” Kelly replies.

He excuses himself from the locker room after that. Brice watches him go, pouting faintly. _That’s that, I suppose._ With a little sigh, Brice finishes putting on his uniform and steps into the kitchen. DeSoto and Gage greet him fairly warmly, both asking what he’s doing at 51s.

“I’m in for Lopez this shift,” he answers, sitting at the table, “Kelly informed me, however, this may not have been a good choice.”

“It’s a good choice if you’re ready to be miserable all shift,” Gage grumbles.

“Yes, Kelly said Stoker has not been in a very good mood of late.”

“That’s an understatement,” DeSoto tells him, “He’s downright miserable.”

“Reckon I would be, too, if it were my b- uh, best friend that got hurt.”

_I can always count on Gage._ Brice says, “So he’s been in this mood for a few weeks, then?”

“And what a miserable few weeks they’ve been. At least me an’ Roy can escape on our separate runs. You’re gonna be stuck with him the whole time.”

Of course, just as Brice is beginning to get somewhere, Gage and DeSoto are called out on a run. He knows his curiosity is really just getting the best of him, that whatever is between Lopez and Stoker is none of his business, but he just wants to know. Brice hates not knowing, and more than that, he hates being on the cusp of knowing with the knowledge just out of reach. Brice sighs quietly and pours himself a cup of coffee.

There were hints of things he noticed when he spent that Christmas at 51s. He remembers how they always stood too close to one another and leaned in closer than normal when they spoke to one another and sat pressed close on the couch. Brice isn’t necessarily the best at noticing things like that, but when he does notice, he’s intrigued. _There has to be something between them, especially if Stoker is this upset._ He’s sure he would be upset if something happened to Ivy or Rosie, but he isn’t dating either one of them, and he imagines it must be so much worse if you love the injured person in that way.

Brice turns at the sound of footsteps behind him. Stoker walks in, expression dour, and silently pours himself a cup of coffee. Misery and agitation hang around him, seeming to seep into the surrounding area like some kind of miasma, and it becomes very clear how his attitude infects everyone around him. Stoker says nothing to Brice, ignoring him completely as he goes to sit on the couch. Brice tries to think nothing of it. The engineer is simply in a bad mood. It’s not personal. Something starts to itch under Brice’s skin, and he knows it’s the agitation rolling off Stoker that’s getting to him. He decides to go find Kelly again.

The lineman is lounging on his bunk, reading a copy of _Fire Engineering._

“I can tell by the look on your face ya came in contact with our resident Black Cloud,” Kelly comments without looking up.

“His bad mood does seem infectious,” he replies, sitting at the foot of Kelly’s bunk.

It’s the bunk usually used by the engineer, the lone bunk across from the captain’s, which piques Brice’s curiosity… especially as it’s not the bunk Kelly was using in December of 1972. He voices his observation.

“Huh? Oh… Mike just wanted to switch, and I was cool with it,” Kelly answers, “I prefer to be a ‘lil closed off, anyway, so it worked for everyone.”

“Why did Stoker want to switch? If I had this bunk, I wouldn’t give it up.”

“You ask an awful lotta questions, Brice.”

“I suppose I do. I’m a curious sort of person,” Brice shrugs.

Kelly regards him for a long moment before telling him, “He didn’t really say, honestly. Was kinda vague about it… just asked if I’d switch with him, so I did.”

_Now he’s definitely lying, but I’m not going to call him out on it._ At least he knows there’s something deeper going on, even if he isn’t one hundred percent sure what it is. He decides to collect more evidence. It doesn’t do to make assumptions without evidence.

It’s a fairly slow day for the engine, so Brice keeps himself busy cleaning, choosing to make himself useful. He even decides to make dinner as he pokes through the fridge and cabinets and pantry. It’s summer, so he wants to make something fairly light but that will fill everyone up.

“Oh, DeSoto, I’ve decided to make dinner,” Brice tells him, “Is everyone fine with pasta and tomato sauce?”

“Yeah, that should be fine.”

“I was going to add some vegetables, as well. I saw some zucchini in the fridge and some asparagus and broccoli and carrots- well, I likely won’t add carrots. There’s some chicken in there I planned on adding, too.”

“That sounds good, Brice. Thanks. Here, I’ll help ya…”

DeSoto chops up some of the vegetables, and Brice uses the opportunity to gather more information.

“I encountered Stoker’s dark mood earlier today,” he comments.

“Yeah, it’s pretty unavoidable these days,” DeSoto replies, “Just follows him everywhere.”

“What exactly happened to Lopez? I’ve heard rumors, but…”

“We were in a nasty old building, and he fell through two floors. Broke his arm, had some internal bleeding. He was lucky, really. Just had a-a compound radioulnar fracture and ruptured spleen, needed a partial splenectomy, but he’s healing pretty well.”

“If he’s healing so well, why is Stoker still so unhappy? It doesn’t make sense.”

DeSoto places the vegetables on the pan for roasting, doesn’t answer him for a moment.

“They had kind of a… disagreement when Marco got hurt.”

“About what?” Brice asks.

“I’m not really sure it’s my place to say,” DeSoto replies, “I’m not even sure I know what it was really about. I have a good guess, but I think Chet’s the only one who actually knows… well, besides Mike and Marco… and neither one of them is telling.”

The squad is toned out shortly after, saving DeSoto from further questioning. Brice just keeps working on dinner. Captain Stanley comes and sniffs around to see what he’s doing. Kelly comes and gives him some good-natured ribbing as he cooks the chicken. The two paramedics return relatively quickly, just as Brice is putting everything together.

“Ah, you’re almost done! Perfect!” Gage says.

“That’s Johnny, always thinkin’ with his stomach,” Kelly speaks up.

Everyone’s in high spirits, laughing and joking, so much so that even Brice cracks a smile… until Stoker comes into the kitchen looking glum.

“What’s for dinner?” he asks.

“I made pasta with chicken and roasted vegetables in tomato sauce… added in some onion, some garlic, some basil…” Brice says, “I hope you’ll all like it.”

“Sure smells good,” Cap says.

“Yeah,” Gage agrees, “it smells incredible, Brice. Didn’t know ya could cook, too.”

“Shoulda suspected it, Gagey-baby. Brice here is the perfect paramedic, after all,” Kelly smirks, “He cooks, he cleans, he saves lives. Gosh, what a catch.”

There’s some quiet snickering, but the cheerfulness doesn’t last long. Stoker’s silent misery seeps through all of them. _And we were actually having fun._ They eat in uncomfortable silence until Stoker finishes, saying, “Good job, Brice. Thanks,” and leaves the kitchen. Kelly and Gage actually let out sighs of relief.

“Oh, fellas,” Cap speaks up, “I got word we’ll be gettin’ someone transferred in to cover Marco until he comes back. Pretty new kid… name’s McClellan. Just finished his probie.”

“That was quick,” DeSoto says, “It’s only been three weeks.”

“Well, Marco’s prob’ly gonna be out closer to three months than two once ya factor in him needin’ to get his strength back up,” Gage adds around mouthfuls of pasta, “Partial splenectomy’s nothin’ to sneeze at, either. ‘s gonna take time.”

Brice and DeSoto hum in agreement. Kelly has started to look a bit disinterested in dinner, but he does offer to help with the dishes. Brice does the drying, still hoping to extract all the information he wants on Lopez and Stoker. They talk about some other things first, until Brice can find a way to maneuver the conversation where he wants it.

“I spoke with DeSoto earlier, and he said Lopez is doing well.”

“Yeah, he’s healin’ pretty good,” Kelly agrees, “I think it’ll be quicker’n three months total before he’s ready to come back. Two-and-a-half is my guess.”

“I suppose I just don’t understand why, if Lopez is healing so well, Stoker is still so upset.”

He hopes his tone sounds naïve instead of curious. Everyone seems to think he’s a robot who doesn’t understand emotion, so why not use that perception to his advantage?

“It- It’s complicated, Brice. It’s-“ he stops, sighs, looks at Brice, “Look… just- Mike and Marco are pretty close, so when Marco got hurt, Mike got scared, and Mike didn’t exactly handle it properly. That led to a bad fight. No offense, man, but that’s really all you need to know.”

“I understand. I appreciate you telling me, Kelly.”

There’s a long pause where the only sounds are the dishes being washed and dried before Kelly asks, “So, C-shift, huh? What station ya gonna be at now?”

“99s. I’ll be there for about two weeks, and after that… we’ll see where I go.”

“Ya haven’t settled in at any one station yet?”

“No, I- uh… I tried it once, tried to settle in at a station once, but it wasn’t for me. I didn’t like it very much. Just- I enjoy moving around.”

Kelly fixes him with a look, one that says he doesn’t quite believe him but he says nothing about it. Instead, he asks about something else, about work, and they fall into a surprisingly easy conversation. It’s nice. It’s pleasant. Perhaps Kelly simply understands the necessity of little white lies here and there. Truthfully, Brice knows very little about Kelly. _And he knows very little about me._

The night is a quiet one, with only the squad called out a couple times, though Brice notices Stoker isn’t sleeping well. The man tosses and turns in his bunk next to Brice, not necessarily keeping him awake but being noticeable enough that Brice wakes early. He’s used to rising before everyone, anyway, so it’s easy enough for him to quietly make his way into the kitchen and make a pot of coffee for everyone, knowing it’s usually Stoker who does so. It’s nice to go through the motions, to experience a perfectly quiet station, to see the rising sun.

“Brice? Why are you up so early?”

Stoker makes his way into the kitchen, discontent still coloring his features.

“I decided to make coffee. I’m usually up before everyone else, so I’m usually the one making it wherever I’m at,” Brice answers simply, “Besides, you didn’t seem to sleep very well last night. I thought it best to let you rest, Stoker.”

“That’s-… I appreciate that, Brice. Thank you,” he says quietly.

He steps up and pours himself a cup of coffee before sitting heavily at the table. Allowing the engineer a moment alone, Brice hangs back, pouring his own coffee, and looks at Stoker. He looks the same as ever, but Brice does remember another time when lines creased his handsome face. He remembers seeing Stoker mount a pulpit, eyes shining, hands weaving words as elegantly as he spoke them, voice shaking. He’d forgotten the sign language until that December, had apparently forgotten the grief-stricken expression he’d worn. _This is similar._

Looking at Stoker, Brice wants to work up a conversation, wants to maneuver his way into sating his curiosity, but he can’t. He realizes he doesn’t need to. Everything has become suddenly, glaringly, obviously clear. _Why did I have any doubts?_ He watches Stoker sip his coffee and thumb through a magazine, hears him quietly sigh, sees the worry and sorrow etched into his features. Brice’s chest aches for him. The words spill out before he can stop them.

“Stoker, I-… Everything will be better soon.”

“What?”

“I-I don’t know what’s going on that has you upset, but I know it will all blow over soon and get better.”

“And how do you know that?” he asks tiredly.

Brice pauses for a moment, then answers as honestly as possible, “Because you deserve for it to get better.”

It’s worth it to see the lines of worry disappear from Stoker’s face, however briefly. He can feel the ache ease in his own chest, but it comes back, too. He doesn’t know why it’s there to begin with, can’t tell if it’s from sympathy or from the knowledge that he’ll never have a relationship like that. He doesn’t know if he should know.

Brice goes to Ivy and Rosie in the afternoon, telling them bluntly, “I think two of the men I know in the fire department are gay.”

Ivy blinks at him for a moment.

“Like… like they’re gay separately or-or gay together?” she asks.

“By ‘together’, do you mean in a relationship with each other?”

“Yes.”

“Then together.”

“And why do you think that? They musta dropped some big hints, Craig.”

He lays out what he knows, from this shift to the shift in 1972 and even some of what he remembers from Starrett’s funeral. Ivy and Rosie listen carefully, and when he’s finished, Rosie says, “I’m not sure I’m hearing a question anywhere, Craig.”

“I just want them to know that I don’t think any less of them, that I still hold them in the highest regard,” he replies, “but I don’t want to tell either one that I suspect they’re in a romantic and sexual relationship.”

“Yeah, that’d be a bad move,” Ivy says.

“Then what’s a good move? What should I do?”

“Honestly?” Ivy replies, “Same as you’re doin’. Just don’t treat ‘em any different and defend ‘em if ya need to. Easy as that.”

“It sounds deceptively easy.”

Rosie speaks up, “But it’s what you do with us, with me and Ivy. Did you treat the two of us any different when you learned we were gay?”

“No, but-“

“No. No buts. It’s the same idea, only it’s different people,” she states, “Just don’t overthink it, okay? That’s when ya get yourself into trouble, Craig.”

Brice just leans back in the chair, mulling everything over. _Of course they’re right._ He thinks back to 51s, to their tight-knit closeness. They protect each other, care for each other, worry about each other. The ache is back in Brice’s chest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're getting there, kiddos. we're getting there :)


	16. We Keep Living Anyway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: strong language, mentioned domestic violence, mentioned murder, mentioned thoughts of suicide.

Brice all but slumps up the stairs to his apartment. The days leading up to Thanksgiving have been fraught with all manner of injuries and kitchen mishaps and accidents, both among the public and among firemen. Brice himself managed to work three shifts in a row before finally being told to go home. The last shift saw him as a lineman at 99s, which happened to be where Bellingham had picked up a paramedic shift. _That was nice working with Bellingham… until he broke his wrist halfway through._ At least Brice had been there.

They were at a supermarket for a woman who collapsed in one of the aisles. A bystander said the woman had complained of some pain in her arms, back, and chest, as well as shortness of breath, and then she collapsed a few minutes later. Bellingham’s partner got to work on the patient, but when Bellingham went to grab the oxygen, he slipped on some spilled liquid, falling back. When he fell, however, he put his arm out behind to catch himself, landing hard on his hand and his backside. Brice knew it was bad when Bellingham let out a string of swears and pulled up his arm, cradling his wrist, and Brice ended up spending the rest of that busy shift as a paramedic.

Now he’s just exhausted. He’s pulled multiple shifts in a row before, even more than this, but those shifts weren’t quite like these. _I don’t even know what’s on my uniform anymore._ Brice just wants to take a hot shower and sleep for as long as possible, especially since his next shift isn’t for two days. Respite is just within reach, his fingers almost tingling with anticipation as he unlocks his door… or perhaps they’re tingling with exhaustion.

“Oh, Craig! You’re home! Thank God!”

Rosie comes hurrying out of her apartment, takes him by the hand, tells him hurriedly, “It’s Ivy! She came home from work and locked herself in the bathroom! She won’t talk to me, won’t come out, nothin’!”

“Wha-? What? What happened?”

“I have no idea. Somethin’ must have happened at work, but like I said, she won’t talk to me. Just came home, ignored me completely, and barricaded herself in the bathroom. Now, I don’t think she’s gonna do anything crazy, but-… I’ve never seen her like this. I’m worried, Craig.”

Brice agrees to abandon his shower and rest for the time being, instead following Rosie into the apartment and to the bathroom. She pulls up short, looks up at Brice.

“Sometimes… Sometimes, it makes me mad, how close you and Ivy are. I know there’s nothin’ else there but friendship, but… I dunno, sometimes the two of you have this connection I can’t really understand, and it just makes me jealous,” she says quietly, “but only for a little bit. I know you’re tight with each other and you protect each other and help each other… so please, help her.”

“I’ll do what I can, Rosie.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Rosie gives his hand a little squeeze and goes into the small kitchen, leaving Brice alone. With a quiet sigh, he approaches the bathroom door, knocks, calls, “Ivy? Ivy, it’s Brice-… it’s Craig. Please let me in.”

“Fuck off!”

“No. Let me in. I want to-“

“I said fuck off! I don’t wanna talk!”

“Well, there have been many times when I haven’t wanted to talk and that never seemed to stop you. Now let me in or I’ll open the door myself,” he says firmly.

“Then you’ll pay to fix it!”

“I never said I would break it down, Ivy.”

A moment passes, and Brice briefly worries he’ll actually have to break in. The lock clicks. Brice knows he must look a sight with his dirty uniform and rumpled hair, but Ivy doesn’t look much better. Her shirt and slacks are wrinkled, her hair mussed in its ponytail, her face splotchy, her eyes red and wet.

“How long have you been in here?” he asks.

“Dunno… what time is it?”

“Almost eight-thirty.”

“Probably about an hour then,” she sniffs, “Been in here since I came home.”

“What happened, Ivy? Why are you so upset?”

“Just work shit.”

“It has to be more than simple work shit… and you have Rosie very worried,” he adds, hoping that will make her open up, “If you don’t want her to hear anything, then I understand that. We can go talk in my apartment if that will make you feel better. I just want to help.”

Ivy regards him for a moment through those red-rimmed eyes, defiance clearly visible, but she soon agrees, “Yeah… yeah, that’d be best, probably… I’ll tell Rosie.”

Rosie doesn’t look exactly happy about it, but she concedes. _I expect Ivy will get an earful from her later._ For now, Brice just has to fix the problem with a proverbial band-aid before it can be fixed with stitches, even though the problem looks much worse than band-aid at the moment. Still, they head across to Brice’s apartment, where Ivy all but collapses on the couch. Brice sits next to her, asks, “Ivy, what happened? What is it that has you so upset?”

“Bein’ a dispatcher really fuckin’ blows sometimes,” she says thickly, “At least for you, there’s somethin’ you can do. You can find a way to help. Me-… I-I’m on the phone. I can’t even trace a call fast enough to be useful. I just- I just hafta sit there and listen to whatever happens on the other end of the line.”

“And-… And what exactly did you hear on the other end of the line last night?”

“Murder,” she says calmly, as if she were saying something benign, and it sends a chill up Brice’s spine.

“Murder?”

“Yup. ‘Lil boy called in, cryin’ hard, said his parents were fighting, and I could hear it in the background, lots of screamin’ and yellin’ and hittin’ and all that. Poor kid couldn’t even tell me his address. I dunno if he didn’t know it or if he was too scared to tell me. Anyway, I tried to trace the call as fast as I could, but they take too long. I could hear the-the guy in the back screamin’ he was gonna throw the woman out the fuckin’ window. Fuck, everyone in there was screamin’… and then I heard it.”

“Heard-? Heard what?”

She pauses a moment before speaking, tears slipping down her face without her even seeming to realize it. Brice’s stomach rolls faintly, knowing what she’ll say next but praying she won’t say it.

“He threw her out the fuckin’ window. Through the window, actually. I heard the glass shatter, heard the kid on the phone scream, heard a smaller kid screamin’ in the background… then Andrea and a couple other girls all got calls for a woman’s body on the ground outside an apartment building. ‘Course, I had to stay on my line ‘til the cops got there, and when they did, they had to shoot the guy ‘cause I guess he ran at ‘em with a knife or some shit, so I listened to him die, too, not that I really feel sorry for him…but those kids,” she swallows hard, her lip trembling, “They know it’s fucked up, but they’re not old enough to understand how fucked up it really is. God, I can’t imagine what they’re going through, what it’s gonna do to them when they’re older, what’s gonna happen to them when-“

Ivy leans forward, puts her face in her hands, and Brice does the only thing he can think of to do. He wraps his arms around her, pulling her into a tight hug, one hand cradling the back of her head. She presses against him. Brice can hear her stifling her crying.

“You go ahead and cry as loud as you want, Ivy,” he whispers, “I won’t tell anyone.”

As if the permission was all she needed, Ivy begins bawling loudly into his shoulder, her hands tightly fisted in his jacket. Uncomfortable though he is, Brice holds his friend and tries to comfort her as best he can. She’s done it for him plenty of times. It’s only fair he returns the favor. He drops his head down a bit to rest his cheek on her hair and lets her get it all out.

xXxXx

“Well, at least you’ll be spendin’ the holidays with us for once,” Easter says, smirking, “Unfortunate ya had to snap your wrist for it to happen, though.”

Bob purses his lips, looking down at his right arm, because of course he had to break his dominant arm. He hasn’t broken anything since he was a kid, and breaking his wrist in a supermarket is not exactly the highlight of his career. _At least Brice was there._ The poor kid had looked honest-to-God worried about him, and Bob’s not ashamed to admit it felt nice. He’d been excited to work with Brice on the same shift, though that excitement was unfortunately cut short.

“Yeah, and I’ll probably be here at Christmas, too, with my, uh, broken wing here.”

The cast is itchy and heavy and annoying, goes up above his elbow to hold it at an angle. Morton informed him that he’d not only jacked up his wrist but also dislocated his elbow in the process. Bob is nothing if not thorough, after all, so it makes sense that when he gets injured, he’s got to go the whole nine yards.

“Don’t think you’ll be carvin’ the turkey this year, that’s for sure,” Easter gently teases, “Probably won’t be wrappin’ Christmas presents, either.”

“Probably not, no, not when I can barely brush my teeth,” Bob replies.

Bob sits in the kitchen watching Easter work. Thanksgiving is always a much smaller affair than Christmas, with their other siblings going to their in-laws for this holiday. Easter’s husband doesn’t have any family, at least none that he’s close with, so their house is Bob’s go-to for Thanksgiving in the unlikely event that he’s not working. Frank and the kids are watching football, leaving Bob and Easter in the kitchen alone.

“I dunno,” Easter says after a moment, “I think a ‘lil break is gonna be good for ya, Bobby. You’ve been movin’ around so much lately. Seems like every couple months you’re at a new station or on a new shift, so this’ll give ya the chance to calm down and think about what ya want.”

“All I want’s to go back to bein’ a paramedic.”

“You know what I mean. You can’t keep bouncin’ around all the time. You’re gonna make yourself sick if ya keep bouncin’ around like this.”

“Terrie, that’s what they need sometimes, fellas willin’ to move around and fill in where they’re needed. Single guys are good for that, y’know.”

“Young single guys are good for that. I hate to tell ya this, Bobby, but you’re not gettin’ any younger. You need to settle down into a station and work on movin’ up.”

“Aw, I don’t wanna move up, though. I like bein’ a paramedic.”

“You can’t be a paramedic when you’re seventy.”

“Says who?” he grumbles.

“C’mon, there’s no firemen still in the department at age seventy, and you know that as well as I do. If they’re still in the department, they’re not in the field anymore. Do you ever think about your future, Bobby, or do you only think about tomorrow?”

“Of course I think about the future. It’s why I work so many shifts, so I can put money away for all the kids,” Bob replies.

“I meant your own future. Your own, personal future.”

“Yeah, of course I do. Just plan on bein’ a paramedic ‘til I drop dead-“

“Dammit, Bobby, that’s not a plan!” she tells him, almost yelling.

“Well, it’s the only plan I got, and it’s worked out so far.”

He knows Easter is unhappy with him, but he can’t really be bothered to care at the moment. His sisters were all able to marry up the economic ladder, and his brother was smart and liked school, so he was able to go to college. Bob never particularly liked school unless he was learning what he wanted, and he never wanted to marry. All he was ever good at was reading and helping people. _Besides, the kids all oughta know that a formal education outta high school isn’t necessary. World needs all kinds of people._ It’s good for the kids, and it’s what he loves to do. He honestly can’t imagine himself doing anything else besides being a paramedic.

“Here, Bobby, use your good arm and help me with this…”

Bob can’t help but think Easter is at least partially right (not that he would tell her). The bouncing around is beginning to take its toll on him, more mentally than physically. He does truly want to settle in and make a station his family. When that doesn’t happen, a man begins to think something is wrong with him. _And it did feel pretty good when Brice was worried about me._ It’s an odd, stray thought, but not an untrue one. Bob has noticed that Brice always seems to be moving around, too. Maybe, just maybe, they could come together and stop shuffling around. _That could be nice… that could be very nice indeed._

xXxXx

“Jesus, Craig, hurry up and put your tie on,” Ivy tells him.

“I don’t understand why I need to wear a tie if you said we won’t be there long,” Craig replies, “I don’t even understand why we’re going if we won’t be there long.”

“Because my every move is fueled by spite.”

“So we are going to your parents’ simply to be spiteful?”

“Abso-fuckin’-lutely.”

He drops his hands from his tie, clearly frustrated with her. Ivy huffs and goes to him, fixing his tie for him. Ivy’s dolled up for the occasion, too, wearing a dress and low heels.

“I would think if you wanted to be spiteful, you wouldn’t dress up,” Craig says.

“Being petty feels better when you’re dressed up. Trust me.”

It’s Craig’s turn to huff.

“You have yet to tell me why we’re spiting your parents, Ivy.”

“Because they’re assholes,” she says simply.

Craig blinks a moment before shrugging, “Your point?”

“My point is- ugh… Look-… My parents are extremely conservative. My mother is actually formerly Amish, and she was shunned out of the Amish community for seeing an English man- umm, a non-Amish man. But she’s still very, very conservative, and she married my father because he has similar views. Thinks all women should be subservient to men, that women are only good for marrying and cleaning and having babies… women shouldn’t work outside the home, all that jazz. Oh, and my gay little self grew up hearing all about how I would be damned to hellfire for all eternity for being gay. I grew up with every aspect of my life centered on a religion I didn’t agree with and that said I should die, and I got fuckin’ sick of it. And did I mention they’re racist?”

“No.”

“They’re racist.”

“So what exactly is your plan, if I may ask?”

“You’ll see. Just roll with it, ‘kay?”

Craig very clearly does not want to roll with it, but it’s too late for him to back out now. _I already promised him dinner and a show._ Just a few days ago, she had listened helplessly as two people died, and it sparked something inside her. Life is too short to keep hiding and pretending things would be okay. _I have to change things… to make them okay for sure, and fuck everyone else._ Sighing, she tells Craig, “C’mon, man, just trust me. This is gonna be iconic, I promise. You will be telling this story into old age.”

He still doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t complain anymore, either. They head down to Ivy’s car and get in. Her family doesn’t live too far away, so at least there won’t be a lot of time to worry and suffer on the way over. Ivy had been hoping to go to Thanksgiving with Rosie, but Rosie had insisted on going alone so she could tell her parents what’s going on between them. That didn’t necessarily make Ivy happy, but she knows it’s necessary. _Her parents are good people. Hopefully they’ll accept it._ Usually, Ivy works on the big holidays to make overtime, but she’d kept her day off this year to go with Rosie, which backfired, and despite being her parents’ least favorite child, she always got an invite to holiday dinners in the hopes she would be the prodigal child.

“Alright, this is gonna be quick and dirty, Craig,” she tells him as they walk up to the house, “Stay quiet and let me do all the talking.”

“I still don’t know what we’re doing so that should be easy.”

Her mother greets her less than warmly at the front door until she sees Craig.

“Please, both of you, come in,” her mother says, “This is my husband, Mr. Thomas Bowens… our sons, James and Timothy… our son-in-law, Matthew Price, and our daughter, Violet… daughters-in-law, Rebecca and Christina… and I am Amity Bowens, Ivy’s mother.”

Craig dutifully shakes with everyone as they’re introduced. _He’s too nice, much too nice._ Her mother continues, “Ivy didn’t tell us she has a boyfriend-“

“He’s not my boyfriend. Craig’s my neighbor from across the hall, and we’re just friends,” Ivy says, cutting off her mother, “In any case, we won’t be here long. Honestly, Craig is here as my backup in case things get crazy-“

“Ivy, may I speak with you a moment?” Craig asks.

He doesn’t wait for a reply, simply grabbing her arm and leading her away. Once out of earshot, he whispers in a low voice, “What are you thinking? I am a paramedic with the Los Angeles County Fire Department. I cannot be involved in a domestic dispute. I cannot have a police record.”

“Dude, chill. There’s not gonna be a domestic. At worst, we’ll have a shouting match like usual, but I don’t even think we’ll be here long enough for that.”

“Then why exactly are we here?”

“For this.”

Ivy turns back to her family, slaps on a grin, and says, “Well, it’s Thanksgiving, and I’ve come to tell you all what I’m thankful for. After all, that’s the whole point of the holiday, isn’t it?”

“Ivy Elizabeth, don’t you dare start-“

“I’m thankful I left this house finally and never came back,” she goes on, “Jesus, I wanted to kill myself for the last ten years I was here ‘cause all I ever heard from you people was how I was doomed to an eternity in hellfire and damnation ‘cause- ‘cause everything I am and want in life is contrary to your precious religious views.”

“This is neither the time nor the place for-“

“This is exactly the time and place. I stayed alive out of spite, pure spite, and I am so fucking thankful I did. I knew staying alive would only make you all angrier. I’m just so thankful that I’m so full of spite it kept me alive,” she says, smiling wider as she speaks, “I’m thankful for my job. I’m thankful for my friends like Craig… and I am most thankful for being a lesbian.”

_Looks of horror. Perfect._

“I am thankful that I fell in love with a beautiful girl, who is kind and amazing and wonderful, and we live together, and I never want to love anyone else in my life ever again. Oh, and she’s black. So, long story short, I am thankful for being queer and I never wanna be invited here again unless you wanna meet my wonderful girlfriend and be civil to her.”

Her mother steps forward, aghast, says, “Ivy Elizabeth, tell me none of that is true.”

“Why, mother… you always taught me that I must never tell lies. It’s the only piece of advice that was ever actually good. Anyway… Happy Thanksgiving, y’all.”

She takes Craig by the arm and leads him out the front door, a smile still on her face, relief flooding her system.

“Help me understand this, then,” Craig says once they’re in the car, “We dressed up, we prepared for dinner, and we drove twenty minutes one way… just so you could dramatically tell your family you’re gay. Is that correct?”

“Also to ruin their holiday. I’m not only spiteful, I’m petty.”

“I noticed,” he replies, pauses a moment, speaks more quietly, “Did you mean what you said in there? About-… About how you wanted to kill yourself?”

“Yes.”

There’s another pause, not quite awkward but almost, and a calloused hand settles over Ivy’s where it rests on the gearshift. Craig speaks again, his voice barely audible this time.

“I am very thankful you’re still here, Ivy.”

“Me too, Craig. Me too.”

Another moment passes in silence before Craig asks, “But what are we doing for dinner?”

“I got a rotisserie chicken at the store yesterday and some sides. Just has to get heated up and we’re good.”

“We’re supposed to have turkey on Thanksgiving.”

“Ugh, Thanksgiving is a shitty holiday, anyway,” she tells him, “We can make our own traditions.”

“So you never planned to stay for dinner there?”

“Hell no, I’m not a masochist. C’mon, man, let’s go home and enjoy our chicken.”

Ivy steals a glance at Craig, sees him smiling in spite of himself, smiles too. It seems they may both enjoy Thanksgiving this year.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's play a game called how many chapters can i title with lyrics from Hamilton lol


	17. But Seas Between Us Broad Have Roared

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: some language, mentioned death, sexual content (masturbation)

“Hey, Jack, thanks for meetin’ with me,” Bob says, shaking Chief Saunders’ hand awkwardly with his left and dropping into a chair, “I know it’s kinda short notice.”

“Of course, Bob. After all, it’s not like you’re always callin’ me every other week with some goofy bullshit, so I’m always prepared to listen. Say, how’s the wrist?”

“I can go back to work in a few weeks, thank God. I’m goin’ outta my mind, I’m so bored,” Bob replies, “Honestly, I’ve never been out this long.”

“Yeah, I know. You never even take vacation. Know how many paid days off you still have between vacation and sick days?”

“I could probably go away for a year and still get paid for it.”

“Close to it, yeah,” Saunders replies, “Anyway, what brings ya here, Bob?”

“Just… I’m lookin’ to get into a station on a, uh, a more permanent basis. I mean, I’m not gettin’ any younger, Jack, and all this bouncin’ around… I kinda enjoy it, don’t get me wrong, but it’s takin’ its toll. I really wanna settle into a station somewhere and make it my home, y’know?”

“I do, yeah… Well, can’t say I never saw it comin’. Suppose we have been usin’ you as a sort of plug, just stickin’ ya in where we could use ya at the moment, and that wasn’t quite fair to you, Bob. Gimme a second here…”

Saunders picks up a notebook and thumbs through it for a moment, finally saying, “Ah, here we go… looks like Redd is leaving 16s A-shift in a month. You could go there if you’d like. You’d be workin’ with… Coolidge, Burt Coolidge. How’s that?”

“I know Coolidge. He’s a good guy… and I like 16s. It’s a good station.”

“Then the spot’s yours if ya want it.”

“I don’t wanna be pushy.”

“You’re not pushy. That’s why I’m willin’ to help ya out. Hell, even if ya were pushy, I’d still help ya out ‘cause you’re only in here once in a blue moon and you’re never here over dumb shit. I’ll put in the transfer for ya. Should be able to start right up there when you get back.”

“If you say so, Jack. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

_He’s a nice guy… a good friend._ It’s nice to know that he thinks of Bob as someone who won’t abuse their friendship. Bob is sure others have in the past. They chat for another few minutes, and before Bob leaves, he asks, “Hey, just outta curiosity, ya got that Brice kid in your book there? Like, ya know what shift he’s on at the moment?”

“Yeah, he’s on… B-shift currently at 24s. Why?”

“I like the kid… and I haven’t seen him since I fell. He was the one who treated me at the scene, y’know. He’s just a good kid.”

Saunders’ expression is odd. He tells Bob, “That’s not what I hear.”

“What?”

“From what I’ve heard, the kid’s got an attitude. Not a bad attitude, just-… kinda acts like a know-it-all, like he’s smarter than everyone else and it makes him better than them ‘cause he knows the rulebook back to front… Aloof, I guess,” Saunders explains, “and always gotta do things his way, the way the rulebook says.”

“That’s news to me. I’ve always got on fine with the kid.”

“Then you’re the only one. You’ve worked with him?”

“Not as partners. Mostly we just ended up on the same runs together a lotta the time,” Bob replies, “Only time we were at the same station was when I broke my wrist last month, but he’d technically picked up a lineman shift. I dunno, he’s just always seemed like a good kid to me… seems smart and capable and eager to learn and all that.”

“Like I said, then you’re the only one. But even a blind squirrel finds a nut every now and again, so I guess it follows even a kid like Brice can find one guy who likes him.”

Bob heads out shortly after that, still a little confused by what Saunders told him about Brice. He’d never really heard any of that. He’d heard that Brice is odd, even weird, that he likes to follow the rulebook, but he’s never heard the kid had an attitude. _Well, B-shift is off today, so I’ll see if he’s free._ Bob picks up the payphone and cradles it between his ear and shoulder as he fishes out a dime.

“ _Hello, this is Craig Brice._ ”

“Hey, Brice, it’s Bob Bellingham.”

“ _Bellingham, how are you?_ ”

“Doin’ okay, kid. Bored outta my skull, though. I still got a few weeks before the wrist heals up and I can get back to work,” Bob says, “How’s the holiday season been?”

“ _Very busy, as usual. I’ve been able to pick up several shifts over the season. One week I worked five shifts,_ ” Brice says, sounding almost proud.

“Ya gotta be careful with that, though, kid. Overworkin’ yourself like that can make ya sick. Don’t wanna get sick, do ya?”

“ _That would not be preferable._ ”

“Didn’t think so… Say, you doin’ anything today?”

“ _No, I don’t have any plans._ ”

“Wanna meet up and grab some lunch? Like I said, I’m bored outta my mind and a friendly face from work would be nice. My treat.”

“ _You don’t have to pay for me. You’re not working at the moment._ ”

“I got so many sick days logged I’m still gettin’ paid like I’m workin’ regular shifts. C’mon, kid… Consider it thanks for takin’ care of my wrist.”

“ _I won’t be able to win this argument, will I?_ ”

“Absolutely not.”

There’s a short pause, and Brice says, “ _Lunch sounds good. Where would you like to go?_ ”

“Probably just to a diner… you been to the Deepwater?”

“ _I haven’t, but I’ve heard others mention it._ ”

“Perfect, then we’ll go there. I’ll pick ya up if ya want.”

“ _That won’t be necessary, Bellingham. What’s the address?_ ”

Twenty minutes later, they’re in a booth with menus in front of them. Brice looks ridiculously ordinary in his street clothes, and Bob is suddenly aware that he hasn’t seen Brice out of uniform except for two occasions: the night they met in ’70 and when Brice was in the hospital. It’s interesting to see him in a color other than shades of blue and tan, to see him in a dark green shirt and brown pants. _He looks like a regular person._ It’s a nice change.

“How’s your wrist healing, Bellingham?” Brice asks.

“About as well as expected, honestly,” he replies, “Just takin’ longer than I’d like. I’m impatient. I want it to heal in a month so I can get back to work. I know it’s not gonna happen, but it doesn’t stop me from hopin’.”

“I understand. When I was in the hospital last year, all I could think of was going home and getting back to work. How are you occupying your free time?”

“Mostly I read a lot or hang out with my family.”

“I didn’t know you were married.”

“I’m not. I have five siblings, and they’re all married with kids, so I hang out with them and my nieces and nephews. And I’m really close with one of my sisters, spend a lotta time with her. It’s nice, but I miss the department.”

There’s an odd look on Brice’s face, but Bob can’t place it. Brice simply says, “That sounds nice,” and then the waitress steps up to take their order, so Bob just lets it slip from his mind for the time being. He’s actually kind of thankful it’s busy in here because he’ll have an excuse to spend more time with Brice.

“So, kid, still shufflin’ your way through the stations?”

“For the time being. Aren’t you also?”

“Before I busted my arm I was, yeah… but as my sister is so fond of tellin’ me, I’m not gettin’ any younger. I’ll be thirty-seven in a couple months, and forty’s loomin’ around the corner. Time for me to settle into a station, make it home, y’know what I mean?”

That strange expression is back, and Brice looks down at his lap, picking at his sleeve, says, “I suppose I do… I simply prefer to keep moving, to not stay in one station too long. I tried to once, but they- I didn’t like it.”

Something rolls in Bob’s stomach, as if he knows exactly what Brice was about to say. He wants to reach out and take his hand, to let him know someone really does care about him, but he knows Brice wouldn’t appreciate that, especially not in public.

“Do ya think you’d ever wanna settle into a station long term?” Bob asks, “Like if ya had a good partner and a good spot and all that?”

“I can’t say. I suppose it would depend on the person and the station. I don’t know who would want to have me as their partner, however.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, kid. I’d have ya for my partner.”

“I appreciate the attempt at humor, Bellingham,” Brice says, finally looking up.

“I’m not joking. I mean it. I’d love to have ya for a partner. I even let ya stick my arm once, remember?”

“Yes, I remember. That was almost two years ago.”

“Was it that long ago? Feels like two months.”

Brice is almost smiling now, tells Bob, “Perhaps you need me as your partner, Bellingham. You seem to be a bit of a romantic. I can keep you down to earth.”

“And you love the rulebook, so maybe I can help ya open up a bit and ignore that ‘lil book when needed,” Bob smirks.

“Perhaps… if we ever get the chance to work together again.”

His eyes flicker down to Bob’s cast. _Oh, kid… you’re not at fault._

“Never really got the chance to thank you for workin’ on my arm,” Bob says, “Ya did a great job. Did everything I woulda done if positions were reversed.”

“You are the one I learned from, so that makes sense.”

It’s not a full blown smile, but it’s the biggest Bob has seen in all the years he’s known Brice, so he’ll take it. The waitress brings their food shortly after. Bob wisely picked breakfast food he can easily cut with his fork using his nondominant hand.

“What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“That,” Brice asks, pointing at the brown rectangle of food on Bob’s plate.

“Oh… it’s called scrapple. It’s, uh, it’s kinda like sausage but not quite,” Bob explains, “Fella runs this place is from Philadelphia where it’s pretty popular. I had no idea what it was when I first came in, but I’m a believer now. You’re welcome to try a bite if you wanna, Brice.”

He manages to take off a corner and nudge it Brice’s way. Brice eyes it for a moment before spearing it with his fork and putting it in his mouth.

“It’s different… but it’s good.”

“See, I knew you’d like it, kid.”

They dig into their meals, conversation spattered throughout their eating. It’s nothing heavy, just this and that, little things about work and runs and interesting stories, including some teasing about Bob’s sloppiness (“Hey, I’m workin’ with one arm over here, kid. Let’s see you try it.”). They continue to talk long after their plates are clean, just enjoying each other’s company.

“Oh, did you hear about Miss Potter? Barbie Potter?” Brice asks.

“Christ, who’d she bite this time? Y’know, she got me in the leg once.”

“She didn’t bite anyone… and I’m afraid she won’t be. She died two days ago.”

“Aw, did she really? That’s-… shit, I thought she’d live forever.”

“I think we all did. Bellingham, did you know she was a nurse in the Navy?”

“Can’t say I did. I mostly just knew Barbie as a drunk ol’ lady.”

“Ivy told me. She works for the police department, and she spoke with Miss Potter one night while she was sobering up. Miss Potter told a sad tale, apparently,” Brice says quietly, “She saw some awful things in the Navy in WWII… got- well, I suppose it’s something like shellshock, a-a combat stress reaction. Her husband left her, took their children, and she was left hopeless. I feel bad for her.”

“Yeah… yeah, so do I.”

“Apparently, her husband did come to claim the body, and there will be a small service in two days time if you’d like to join us.”

“I would,” Bob says, “Thanks for tellin’ me, kid. Hey, lemme know sometime tomorrow what all the details are, okay?”

“I’ll call when I can.”

“Jesus… not the best way to start the year, is it?”

“No, it’s not.”

They sit in quiet for another moment before Bob realizes it’s probably time to head out. He’s sure to leave the waitress a generous tip, and the two of them head out to their trucks.

“This was nice, kid,” Bob tells him, “I enjoyed it.”

“As did I. Perhaps we can do it again sometime.”

“I hope so. Hey, you have a good one, okay?”

“I will… and I hope you do, also.”

Throwing caution to the wind, Bob pulls Brice into a quick, one-armed hug. Brice immediately stiffens, so Bob keeps it short, offers him a smile, and heads home for the afternoon.

xXxXx

It’s been an odd week for Brice, odd in that he’s bored. Since his lunch with Bellingham, Brice hasn’t had any shifts due a rash of well-being in the department and hasn’t had any plans save for Miss Potter’s funeral three days before. Other than that, both Ivy and Rosie are busy with work, and Bellingham has things to do with his family. _This is rather annoying._ Today, Brice doesn’t even have the will to get out of bed though it’s already eleven in the morning. He heaves a sigh, rolls over onto his back.

He doesn’t even know what to do because he’s already done everything. He’s cleaned and gone to lunch and cleaned again and cooked dinner and read books and gone to the movies and- well, he’s done everything he can think of. _I have never been so bored._ Brice sighs again. In times like these, he wishes he had a permanent spot at a station despite the risk factors. It would just be nice to know he’d worked every shift and who he would be working with. This reminds him too much of the farm work he used to do in Florida.

Finally sitting up, Brice runs his hands through his hair, grimacing a bit. He took his last shower the day of the funeral and his hair reminds him of that fact. A shower sounds like a good idea, and he considering he has nothing better to do, it sounds great. In any case, it’s something to do. Brice pushes himself out of bed and goes into the bathroom, shucking off his t-shirt and shorts, quickly running his fingers through his dirty hair instead of combing it.

He gets all the scrubbing done fairly quickly, washing himself without much interest, and truthfully, it’s over too quickly for his liking. He drops his head. The water washes over his body, pounds against his skull, soaks into his now-clean hair. He watches the rivulets roll down his chest and torso and thighs, half-mesmerized by their movements. _Amazing._ This is something he could do all day, watch the water as it plays over his body. Brice allows himself the moment of quiet observation and calmness as the tiny streams flow down his torso to their inevitable conclusion.

Droplets both large and small sit in the dark hair at the apex of his thighs, glinting in the light of the bathroom, water dripping sporadically from the tip of his penis. Brice watches for along moment before he realizes he’s half hard. He’s a bit startled but not unpleasantly so. He’s almost intrigued, honestly. This is a bit unusual for him. He’s woken up with morning erections before, has had the same teenage embarrassments everyone else has, but in his adulthood, this sort of random midday erection is unheard of. With nothing better to do, however, he might as well take care of it.

After watching the water a moment more, Brice reaches down and wraps his hand around the shaft of his penis, giving himself a slow stroke. He can almost feel the blood surging down there, an erotic rush flitting up his spine, warmth in his limbs. His hand slides over the smooth skin. He’s never really taken the time to enjoy touching himself this way before, but he’s beginning to see the merits of it. The pace he sets for himself is slow and almost lazy, waves of pleasure lapping up his spine. A haze of arousal hangs over his mind. Every few strokes, his hand slips up over the head, carefully collecting some of the precum to ease his strokes. _Shit, this feels nice._

Brice almost makes it an experiment. He changes the pressure of his hand and the speed of his strokes, adds in a twist here and there, trying to figure out what feels best, until he finally hits on the perfect combination. The sensation pulls a quiet gasp from his throat. He usually only does this because it feels good once it’s done, because it’s healthy, because it helps flush the system. He’s never actually done it simply to feel good. _And this feels very good… better than I thought it would._ He begins to stroke faster, pleasure building in his system, pulsing in his groin. His hips rock slightly, pushing toward his hand of their own accord. It feels good to let go and loosen up.

Turning away from the spray of the shower, he feels his climax coming, pumps his hand faster over his shaft. Pressure builds in his groin and lower back. The pleasant buzzing at the base of his skull is almost overwhelming, though he blocks it out, wanting to watch himself for once. _I usually close my eyes._ He watches his hand slide over the shaft.

He cums hard, almost without warning. Sparks shoot up his spine, pulse in his brain, spread through his limbs. His whole body jerks, shuddering under his orgasm. A gasp is forced from his lungs. Cum shoots out in short spurts of white. He shakily strokes his oversensitive flesh until his pleasure ebbs away. Brice breathes heavily, leaning against the shower wall, letting the feeling of water on his skin wash over him once more.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, finally turning off the shower.

Stepping out onto his bath mat and wrapping a towel around himself is nearly difficult with how loose-limbed and comfortable he feels. Brice almost wants to go back to bed, to go back to sleep, but he decides to put on some clean shorts and make some lunch instead.


	18. Run, Run, Lost Boys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: language, minor line of duty injuries.
> 
> Related to my other fics, [Oh, There You Are](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4278609/chapters/13270768) and [Will Someone Care?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8667940). Please check any warnings there as well.

_I hate brushfires. I mean, they’re exciting, sure, but at what cost?_ After about eight hours of nearly nonstop work, 51s is finally getting a break. Chet is more than happy to shovel in a sandwich and guzzle some cold water, though he consumes them too fast for them to really be satisfying. He notices Johnny and Marco have done the same, both looking as disappointed as he feels. The other three men on their shift have a bit more self-control. With a sigh, Chet flops back on the grass, breathing deep, taking advantage of the fresh air while he can.

Brushfires like this are just no fun. It’s hot and dirty and gritty and there’s always so much that can go wrong with so many firemen at the same scene. They’re about ten times worse when they’re man-made too, because there’s no reason for them to be there other than someone being an asshole. _That burnt out car pretty much said it all._ They haven’t found any bodies yet, but if they do, woe betide the particular asshole that started this one. _Might kill him myself when this is all done…_ Chet takes another deep breath. He’s been breathing bottled air and air tinged with smoke all day, so the fresher air here feels like a luxury.

The six shiftmates are quiet, just listening to the radio chatter and the activity around them, breathing in the cleaner air. It’s nice. Chet just relaxes for a bit, happy to be in the presence of his friends, the men he considers his family. They’ve been together on the same shift for about five years now. It’s something Chet still marvels at. Most shifts do not last this long, someone usually leaving once a year for one reason or another until the whole shift is replaced. There are a few men who’ve been at one station their whole career, but they’re few and far between. A whole shift remaining together for more than two or three years is unheard of. Five is unprecedented.

Chet’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the department to come in and split them up, and he isn’t sure he could handle that. All his blood relatives are dead and gone, and being separated from this little found family feels too much like abandonment for his liking. The thought sends a chill up Chet’s spine. He adjusts his position to cover it, moving closer to Johnny, knowing the paramedic and his partner might get called away at any moment. He feels Johnny adjust in turn, shifting closer, and Chet relaxes just a little more.

" _Squad 51… Report to Engine 43, north exposure. Report of an injured fireman…_ "

There’s a brief pause, and both Johnny and Roy climb to their feet, headed for the squad. Chet sits up again, watching them go. He’s suddenly aware of how tired he is, of his aching limbs and sore muscles and itchy throat, and he knows they feel the same. Brushfires are never-ending, never have an assured respite. There’s just scores of tired firemen everywhere. Chet tries to relax as much as possible, unsure when he’ll get another chance.

" _Engine 51, respond with Squad 51 to Engine 43's Code I, north exposure_ ," the dispatcher says, calm voice washing over them, " _Engine 43 is also reporting a missing fireman._ "

"Engine 51, KMG-365."

_Well, shit._ The four men make it to their feet with only mild groans and complaints. Chet and Marco take up their seats in the back, both reluctantly pulling on their turnouts. For May, the weather is actually quite nice, but their near constant exertion in heavy gear and close proximity to fire has them all sweating profusely. _I can’t wait to be dry again._ Chet simply tilts his head back for now, letting his body rock and sway with the movement of the engine. It’s strangely comforting, so much so he almost falls asleep, but the smell of smoke and sound of wailing sirens reminds him to stay awake. He hears Marco shift beside him and knows he’s watching Mike. He thought puts a little smile on his face.

Squad 51 and Engine 43 are both waiting for them when they arrive. Chet and Marco hop off the back of the engine, and Chet takes a moment to stretch, feeling his back pop in several places. Roy comes over to them, halfway into his gear.

"It's Brice," he tells them, "He went in after someone, and the other fireman came out but not Brice. They never met up, and no one's heard from Brice in a while."

Chet’s stomach twists uncomfortably. He’s been hearing some bad things about this area, that it tends to spot and be afflicted by shifting winds. Beside him, Marco’s expression is dark, and Chet knows what his partner is thinking. Brice might be dead in there. _Nah, fucker’s too smart and too stubborn to be dead._ Brice is too resourceful. He could find a way out of any situation, no matter how dangerous, of that Chet is sure. He casts his gaze over the scene.

The blackened landscape is strangely beautiful in a way. Chet’s grown up in Los Angeles. He’s been taught all about the ecology of brushfires and how they make room for new growth by cleaning away what’s dead, and he supposes that’s what he finds beautiful, the destruction and rebirth. A strange urge seizes Chet, makes him want to stride right into the charred landscape as if he could find Brice singlehanded, could somehow become one with this place. _How poetic of me._

A muffled _thup-thup-thup_ reaches Chet’s ears, and he’s pulled out of his reverie. A chopper comes into view over the horizon. Chet shifts closer to Marco as it approaches, dumps it water tanks over the scene, circles over the area.

"Alright," 43’s captain says, "Copter 2 says they think the fire is all out, only saw one hotspot and extinguished it. No sign of Brice, though."

"We'll find him," Johnny says firmly, confidently, "We'll bring him back."

"Good. Kid's annoying as hell, but God help me, I would miss him."

As soon as Copter 2 calls in that the scene is clear, the men of 51s and 43s head into the blackened forest to find their lost comrade. They all split up, knowing it’ll be easier to find Brice if they’re not all clumped together.

“Where are ya, man?” Chet mutters to himself.

The landscape is foreboding now that he’s in it. Every tree is charred and scorched, limbs creaking ominously overhead. _Better pay attention to that._ Johnny got four broken ribs when a tree branch fell on him several years ago. He keeps his ears pricked, especially for Brice calling for help. The others’ calls are still audible but barely so, muffled by the haze of smoke still in the air. The smell would be pleasant if not for the thickness of it. Chet had pulled off his mask as soon as they’d split up, tired of wearing it and breathing in bottled air the whole day. The haze is gritty and thick and irritating, but it’s real. He would deal with any consequences later.

Chet pauses, looks around. Brice could honestly be anywhere, could be a mile away by now. Shaking himself slightly, Chet tries not to think of the worst, but he wants to be prepared for it. He’ll never admit he kind of likes the paramedic know-it-all, but he does. Through meanness and name-calling and abuse that would have made lesser men quit the department years ago, Brice has stood tall and weathered the storm, and Chet knows he will for some time. He certainly wouldn’t let this stop him, not by a long shot. _I might even be a ‘lil nicer to him when all this is done… if he’s not dead, of course._ Chet shakes himself again, forces himself to stop thinking like that. It won’t do any good.

There’s a loud crack, and Chet whips around in time to watch a tree branch fall about ten feet away. Before his heart has time to slow down, there’s a shout to his right, one that sounds frightened. The only person to Chet’s right is-

“Johnny?” he shouts, “Johnny? Brice?”

He waits for a response, and hearing none, he sets off in that direction, carefully picking his way over the uneven ground. _Not gonna get crushed by a fuckin’ branch, either._ He peers through the hanging smoke, ignoring the grit in his throat, eyes peeled for tan turnouts and black helmets and yellow air tanks. The shout had only sounded scared, and Chet tries to convince himself that Johnny simply fell in a hole or tripped or had some kind of animal run across his path. That’s typical Johnny, after all.

An age seems to pass before Chet spies two figures on the ground ahead of him, materializing through the haze like ghosts. He shivers slightly as his inadvertent comparison but keeps moving forward toward them. His chest tightens the closer he gets. Two firemen are sitting on the ground, holding on to one another…or, rather, one is holding the other. Chet can see that Johnny has his arms around Brice, but he can’t see Brice’s face or tell if he’s moving. He advances on the pair slowly, watching Johnny tighten his grip on the other paramedic. The fear and sadness must show in his face, but he can’t fight them. Johnny lifts his gaze.

“Is that-?” he whispers shakily, “Is he-?”

"He's alive, Chet. Here…” Johnny says, carefully disengaging himself from Brice, “help me out, man… call Cap, would ya?” and once Chet does so, Johnny continues, “Great, c'mere… let's get him outta here so I can check him over better…"

Chet gets on Brice’s left side and helps haul him to his feet, though Brice’s knees damn near buckle underneath him. _He doesn’t look good. Probably dehydrated._ Brice sways once he’s upright and immediately leans on Johnny, leans on him the whole way back. Chet stands off from them a bit, only stepping in when needed, only speaking to ask about Brice’s condition or if they need help. Even if he had a smart comment, now is not the time for one.

Once they finally return to the apparatus, there’s a small crowd waiting for them. 43’s Capt. Ramos is the first to call out, “There you are! What happened, Brice?”

Brice looks around, and if he weren’t already flushed from heat and dehydration, Chet would be sure he’s blushing from embarrassment. He opens his mouth to reply, but Johnny rolls over him, “You can tell the story later, pal. For now, be quiet and let me look you over.”

“No…” Brice tries to protest, “No, I-I’m fi-“

He doubles over with coughing so forceful it makes Chet wince. He stands back, watching Johnny sit Brice on the running board and try to treat him even though Brice protests. Even with his whole body shaking, Brice tries to fight the oxygen mask until Johnny can coax him into keeping it on. After a few minutes, Johnny finally tells him, “Hey, Brice, I really think you oughta go to Rampart.”

_As if he’ll agree to that._ Sure enough, Brice shakes his head, informs Johnny, “I’m fine,” pulls off his oxygen mask, and promptly vomits. Chet winces again as he heaves, not even bringing anything up when he does. After that, Brice agrees to go to Rampart. Chet is sure to stop by and give him a squeeze of the shoulder, telling him, “You’re gonna be okay,” before Engine 51 is called to another assignment.

xXxXx

"Hi, Brice… Johnny here tells me you're not having a red letter day."

The young paramedic looks up at Early. He looks miserable, certainly, with his face and uniform covered in soot, two clean tracks down his cheeks, his hair filthy and mussed. Brice carefully shakes his head. Early fixes him with a gentle smile and steps closer, saying, "I can tell. Are you hurting anywhere?"

"My back," he rasps, "Something-… something fell and struck me."

"Then let's have a look at it. Johnny, would you help me? I just need to get his coat and shirt off…” Early says.

Johnny eases Brice out of his turnout, though they allow Brice to unbutton his own shirt even with his trembling fingers. He doesn’t appear to be in a severe amount of pain, but Early knows Brice, so he knows the young man is more than capable of hiding pain. _He can’t hide that wince, though._ From there, Early simply cuts off the sweat-soaked t-shirt and throws it away, stepping around to examine Brice’s back, saying, “Perfect, now let's have a look- oh dear… You certainly were struck…"

A large bruise crosses Brice’s back, from the left shoulder to the right hip, about six inches wide. _Probably a tree branch._ Early steps away to grab a stethoscope, and he hears Brice ask Johnny to describe the injury to him, which Johnny dutifully does. Johnny is good like that, is a good friend when one is needed.

“Everything feel okay?” Johnny asks Brice, “Ribs feel okay and everything, I mean?"

"I believe so. I don't have any abdominal tenderness or pain in my chest."

"That's good, then. Cracked ribs are the worst. Trust me."

"Johnny's right,” Early agrees, “Alright, Brice, I'm gonna listen to your lungs now. You don't want pneumonia or worse setting in. Has the oxygen been helping?"

"Yes, quite a bit."

He asks Brice to breathe deep, but the young man begins coughing harshly. Out of the corner of his eye, Early can see Johnny standing close to Brice, hand gripping his shoulder. Early does his best to be gentle when pressing the stethoscope to Brice’s back, trying to work around the bruised flesh, feeling bad when Brice flinches. It’s not his intention to hurt the boy, after all. Brice begins to shiver slightly as Early finishes up.

Fixing his usual calm smile, Early says, "I don't like your lung sounds very much, Brice. I'd like to keep you overnight for observation, just to make sure nothing goes wrong. There might be internal injuries that haven't manifested yet."

"But I feel fine, doctor. I-"

"Shut up, kid, and listen to Early. You know he's right."

Brice sighs, and his body sags, a clear sign of defeat. Early is grateful it was so easy. He knows how stubborn Brice can be, how stubborn all firemen can be, when treatment is concerned.

“I called up to get you a recovery room,” Early tells Brice, “It shouldn’t be too long, but there will be a bit of a wait. Is there anything you need right now?”

Brice shakes his head, so Early adds, “Are you feeling up to having some visitors? There’s a whole group out there waiting to see you.”

“Who?”

“Station 51.”

There’s a little twist in Early’s gut. Brice honestly looks surprised that people want to come in and check on him. Inviting 51s in, Early hangs back until he’s needed elsewhere, just watching them all interact. They all take a turn checking in on Brice, though Stoker and Kelly take the longest time, and when Stoker steps away, Brice’s head is down. When his shivering becomes pronounced, Early ushers everyone out over their promises to visit tomorrow.

“Hopefully you won’t be here that long,” Early tells him, “I don’t anticipate a long recovery. Like I said, I just want you under observation to make sure nothing gets worse. Is there anyone you’d like me to call for you?”

The boy thinks briefly, asks, “Could I speak to Gage for a moment?”

But Johnny and 51s are already gone. Brice frowns when Early tells him.

“Perhaps you know… I’d like to contact Bellingham, doctor.”

That’s not surprising. While Early is certain the two have never worked together as a pair, they’ve been fairly close since Brice joined the department, at least as close as Brice can get to another person. They would make a quite a pair, honestly: straight-laced Brice with relaxed (sometimes sloppy) Bellingham. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, Bellingham is out on a run, so he’ll likely be at Rampart soon.

“Well, while we’re waiting for Bob to finish his run, why don’t you tell me what happened.”

“You know what happened. A branch fell on me, doctor.”

“Yes, but I’d like to hear how you got to that point,” Early says.

Brice’s cheeks color, and he ducks his head slightly, saying, “I, umm… I got lost at the fire. Another fireman, Fischer, went missing and when we went in to look for him, I- I got a bit turned around and-… and I got lost and- May I speak frankly, Dr. Early?”

“Of course, and you have my promise that whatever you say will stay between the two of us.”

_Hopefully that will put him at ease._ Brice is a very private person, after all. Out of all the paramedics, Brice is the one Early knows the least about. He knows the young man is from Florida but nothing else. Head still ducked, Brice fidgets, picking at the sides of his nails for a long moment.

“Dr. Early, I-… I was very afraid.”

“It was a frightening situation.”

“No, it wasn’t that, _per se_. I wouldn’t necessarily say I was afraid of-of dying more than anything else. It was… I was afraid I would be left for dead… that no one would want to come find me,” Brice tells him quietly.

“Why were you afraid of that?”

“Because no one likes me. Why would they go look for someone they don’t like?”

What really strikes Early is not so much the words Brice said but the way he said them: calmly, easily, as if he were stating a common fact. That’s what almost sets a lump in Early’s throat. Of course, Early isn’t deaf to rumors. He knows what the other paramedics say at the bay station, what they think of Brice, and he’s usually the one to put a stop to that kind of talk. Brice is odd, definitely, but he’s also intelligent and inquisitive and does his job… and he would be the first to put himself in harm’s way to protect someone else.

“Whether they like you or not doesn’t matter, Brice,” Early tells him honestly, “If you’d like to know the truth, when I first got a job as a surgeon, most of my colleagues didn’t like me, either.”

“Where was that?”

“Korea.”

Brice’s eyes go wide, and Early explains, “I was drafted and sent to a MASH unit. Brain surgeons were a hot commodity, but even as that, I was just a whiny kid to them, fresh out of my residency. I complained endlessly about everything, about the conditions, that I was tired, that the food was bad, that I was scared. But I did my job and I did it well, which only irritated them more. They already didn’t like me because I was replacing someone they liked. Me doing well angered them, I think, because if I was bad they had a real reason to hate me. My only friend was a nurse who was in the same boat.”

“How did you handle it?”

“Just did. I knew that was only temporary, that one day I would find a place where I fit in and where people liked me for the most part. Everybody’s not gonna like you all the time.”

“Nobody here likes me any time,” Brice mumbles.

“I don’t believe that. Station 51 was just in here to check on you… and Johnny stood by while I was looking you over. I remember a young lady coming by to visit you every time you’ve been here overnight… and I know Bob Bellingham thinks very highly of you. There are a fair number of people around here who care about you. You just have to let us, Brice.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but that’s when Dixie comes in to inform them Brice’s bed is ready. Early watches Dixie coax Brice into a wheelchair and cart him off to the recovery ward. _That should give him plenty to think about._ The elevator doors close, and only moments later, there’s a flurry of activity as 16s brings in their patient, who is screaming his head off. Bellingham and Coolidge simply pass him off to hospital staff. Coolidge gives Early a quick hello and heads off to the bathroom.

“Drunks, man,” Bellingham says, scrubbing at his face, “I’d rather be at the damn brushfire than dealin’ with people like this. How’s it here, doc?”

“Oh, it’s alright. Just another busy day at Rampart General. If you have a moment, Brice is going to be here overnight,” Early tell him.

“What? What happened? Is he okay?”

“He should be fine, and I know he would appreciate a visit from you,” and Early pauses, wondering briefly if he should say what’s on his mind before throwing caution to the wind and continuing, “He’s a very lonely young man, Bob.”

And then Early is called away, though he does see Bob heading for the elevator.

xXxXx

Bob is not a man to pull favors, even though he’s accrued many over the years. He just doesn’t want to take advantage of other people’s kindness or position. Something small may come up here and there, like a shift switch or a day off, but overall, Bob does not ask for favors.

Today, he sits in Saunders’ office to ask for a favor.

“Long time, no see, Bob. What can I do for ya?” Chief Saunders asks.

“I’m here to request a partner. Coolidge is leaving next month.”

“It’s a bit unusual, but I guess I can let ya pick his replacement,” he agrees, “especially since you’ll be workin’ together all the time. I can-“

“I want Craig Brice.”

Saunders blinks at him a moment, asking, “Who did you say?”

“Craig Brice.”

“Have you met Brice? Everyone comes here to get rid of him, not to work with him.”

“Well, I’m here to work with him. Guess I’m the only one crazy enough to like him, but I do. He’s a good kid. He’s smart. He works hard. I want him on my squad, Jack,” Bob tells him firmly, “Besides, since when have I cared what other people think? Look, guys come in here all the time tryin’ to get rid of their partners who are black or Mexican or Asian, and in my opinion, it’s damn near as fucked up that people come in here tryin’ to get rid of Brice just ‘cause he’s weird.”

_Got him on that one._ Saunders sighs, says, “Brice has specifically asked to keep movin’ around. Says he prefers it.”

“I don’t care. I want him on my squad. He deserves the chance to settle in somewhere and stop bein’ shunted around from station to station where he’s treated like- like furniture or worse. Just-… he deserves the chance, Jack.”

Bob is tired of hearing the complaints and jokes from everyone else about working with Brice, is tired of hearing them insult him from behind his back. _When he’s my partner, he’s mine to defend._ He doesn’t when he became so protective of this strange boy, but he has. Leaning back in his chair, he watches Saunders.

“So… Coolidge leaves in a month?”

“Yup. His last day is June 18th.”

“Well then… I guess you’ll see Brice on the 20th, Bob.”

“Perfect. Thank you, Jack, thank you very much… oh, and Jack?” Bob leans in, dropping his voice conspiratorially, “I was never here. I don’t want Brice to know I had a hand in this, okay?”

“Okay, Bob, if you think that’s best.”

“I do. Thanks again. I will never ask for another favor from you,” Bob tells him.

Saunders smiles faintly, “You’re the only I believe that from.”

Bob shakes his hand and heads out. _I sure hope that was the right thing to do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there! *dances, shouts, blows party horns*


	19. Fancy Seeing You Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: blood

_I wonder why I’m here this time._ Brice sits in the waiting room of Chief Saunders’ office, trying to think of all the things he could get reprimanded for today. He’s been at 51s for a few weeks, standing in for an injured John Gage, and while he’s generally on cordial terms with everyone there, a few weeks of working with him may have been too much for even the kindest of them. _But I’m moving on again._ He certainly doesn’t believe any of the men at 51s could hurt him, but Gage and DeSoto are on their way to recovery with pairs of paramedics taking over until they’re back in five shifts. Gage and DeSoto are close friends, and Brice wouldn’t dream of remaining and somehow splitting up their team. Brice presses a fist against his knee to stop it from shaking.

“Ah, Mr. Brice… we meet again,” Saunders says, “C’mon in…”

Entering the familiar office, Brice takes up his customary seat, having spent many hours in Saunders’ office over the last few years. He’s a good man, listens and responds well, tells you the truth you need to hear even if you don’t want to hear it. Brice respects that. The lanky chief sits after getting himself some coffee, says, “Thanks for coming in on such short notice.”

“Of course. I assumed it would be urgent… or at least important.”

“I wanted to personally give you your next assignment ‘cause I figured you’d be in to see me or Arden as soon as ya heard.”

“And what is my next assignment?” Brice asks cautiously.

“You’re gonna be goin’ to Station 16’s A-shift. Permanent transfer.”

Confusion and a bit of anger rise up in his chest.

“But- But my wish is to remain on temporary duties. It was my understanding that wish would be respected, sir,” he says quickly.

“And it has been for a long time, Brice, but things change. You know that. You’re more valuable to the department if you’re permanently assigned to a station. This way, you can train people, you can make connections in the department, everything you shoulda been doin’ these last couple years,” Saunders explains, “A couple years down the line could see a major promotion for you.”

“I have no intention to seek a promotion. I enjoy being a paramedic.”

Brice knows he sounds like a petulant child, but he can’t help it. He’s upset, and the mischievous twinkle in the chief’s eye isn’t helping matters.

“Do me a favor, Brice. Just try it out for a couple months, and if it’s not working out, we’ll handle it, okay? C’mon… give it a shot.”

Despite the annoyance still surrounding him, Brice agrees, “I suppose… I suppose it won’t hurt to try it out for two months… if that’s the department’s wish.”

“Wonderful. You join 16’s A-shift tomorrow and-“

“Tomorrow? Sir-?”

“Yes, tomorrow, Brice.”

“But, sir-“

“You’ll be fine. 16s is a good station.”

_I can recognize a dismissal when I hear one._ He bids the chief farewell and leaves the building. Truthfully, Brice doesn’t even know who’s at 16s anymore. During his few weeks at 51s, he’d never interacted with them. They never went on the same runs, always missed each other at Rampart, and it somehow never came up in conversation. He seems to remember Bellingham was there for a bit, but he moves around almost as often as Brice does. _It hardly matters. Whoever it is won’t like me anyway._ He’s learned that often enough.

The frustration doesn’t go away as he drives home. He wanted only one thing from the department, to have the freedom to move around, to have a variety of experiences, to treat a variety of people. He’s at least felt like he had a choice that way, even if he really hadn’t. Now, Brice feels like his choices have been taken away, and he’s never enjoyed that feeling. He wants to call Crawford to complain, but he’ll be at work, and Brice won’t bother him at work.

He’ll complain to Ivy and Rosie. Surely, they’ll have a set of sympathetic ears.

xXxXx

“Craig, you know I love you very much,” Ivy tells him, “but you’re overreacting.”

He looks almost crestfallen, asking, “What?”

Rosie pipes up, “She said you’re overreacting-“

“I know what she said-“

“-and I agree with her.”

Craig flops into his customary chair, pouting, and mumbles, “Should’ve called Crawford…”

“Crawford woulda told you the same thing,” Ivy says, “that you’re overreacting and makin’ a-a mountain outta a molehill, just like ya always do. Things change. You know that, babe.”

“But I had an agreement with the department and-“

“That was an agreement you were very lucky to have for as long as you did. Bureaucracy doesn’t work like that. Honestly, I thought this was gonna happen much sooner, that you were gonna get permanently assigned somewhere.”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Bureaucracy is all about efficiency, about keeping the machine greased and running. For a while, for the fire department, it was more efficient to let you move around,” Ivy says simply, and Rosie agrees, “Yeah, and now, it’s more efficient to have you permanently assigned somewhere. In a big department, we’re all cogs in a machine, but of course, that’s the most important part of the machine. Keeping the all the pieces content is the best way to keep everything running. But sometimes, what keeps one person content isn’t what’s best.”

“And y’know what they say, the squeaky wheels get greased. When something stops working, it gets fixed.”

“Nothing was broken,” Craig says, “Everything was going fine.”

“From your end it was, but maybe not from their end,” Rosie tells him.

“C’mon, Craig, it’ll be okay. You’ll see. Hey, why don’t you come to the beach with us today? It’ll help ya relax, I guarantee it.”

“Yeah, come with us. Take some time to chill out.”

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“You won’t… Besides, I’ll have Ivy all to myself later tonight,” Rosie smirks, leaning in to kiss Ivy briefly.

_Now, that’s an idea I like._ Craig soon relents, and he heads over to his apartment to get ready. Ivy waits in the living room for a moment, though, with a fairly wicked thought. Picking up the phone and flipping through the phonebook, she dials.

“ _Hello, LA County Fire Department, Station 16. Fireman Graves speaking._ ”

“Hello, Fireman Graves, perhaps you can help me,” Ivy replies, putting on a voice, “I feel very silly for calling, but- well, some of your fine paramedics treated my mother yesterday. Would they be there today?”

“ _No, ma’am, but they’ll be here tomorrow._ ”

“Oh dear… well, I suppose I’ll just call back tomorrow then. Could you be a dear, though, and remind me of their names? I’m afraid with everything that happened yesterday, I need a bit of a push to remember.”

“ _Of course, ma’am, their names are Coolidge and Bellingham… though I’m afraid Coolidge’s last day with our station was yesterday. Bellingham will be here, though._ ”

“Wonderful. Thank you very much, Fireman Graves. I’ll call tomorrow.”

Ivy hangs up the phone, grinning, and goes in to change.

“Why do you look so happy?” Rosie asks.

Ivy tells her, “I just know something that’s gonna be very good for Craig, that’s all.”

“Don’t suppose you’re gonna share that information with me?”

“Nope. You’ll see.”

Soon enough, all three are sitting on the beach. It feels nice, like they’re a little family. Beside Ivy, Rosie looks radiant and lithe, dark skin all but glowing in the sunlight, sand dotting her limbs and torso like pale freckles. On her other side, Craig looks strangely normal, legs lean and long, torso bare, glasses abandoned. Ivy wants to hold both their hands and never let go. _My loves… I love them so much… not in the same way but equally._ It feels very nice indeed.

xXxXx

Brice sits in the parking lot for a long moment, unsure of whether or not he really wants to go in. He doesn’t know what awaits him inside, doesn’t know if the men there will be kind or cruel or anything in between. _I wish I’d had more time to prepare, to gather information._ Looking at his watch, Brice sighs, gathers his bag, and goes in. The four men in the kitchen turn to look at him, and Brice presents his usual greeting, “Hello, I’m Craig Brice, your new paramedic.”

“Hello, Brice,” one of them says, stepping up, “I’m Captain Ransome… this is Frank Palmer, our engineer… our linemen, Harry Sauvageau and Jim Weiss. Our other paramedic doesn’t seem to be here yet, but he should be soon. You just head into the locker room and do what you have to do. Your locker’s in the front block on the left, closest to the wall. Go make yourself at home, son.”

Brice nods and goes into the locker room, having no intention to make himself at home. He doesn’t plan on staying longer than the two months Chief Saunders asked him to try, and then he’ll move on, just as he always has. He puts the whole bag into his locker, not even bothering to unpack it. Doing so would be pointless, after all. He just decides to wait in the locker room for the other paramedic to arrive.

Taking a quick look in the mirror, Brice checks his appearance. His hair isn’t sitting quite right, little pieces sticking up all over the place, and he tries in vain to smooth them all down. _I shouldn’t have slept on damp hair._ He straightens his uniform, brushing out the creases. He looks himself over, wrinkles his nose slightly, winces. There’s a red tint over his nose and cheeks and arms, a testimony to his day spent outdoors yesterday. His chest and back and shoulders look much the same. _And I should have used sunblock._ Brice crinkles his nose once more, feeling the tight skin pull as he does so, the sensation familiar.

There’s a small commotion outside the locker room, and it sounds to Brice like the other paramedic has finally arrived. He decides to busy himself with something in his locker as if he were unpacking. This way, the other man can decide how to initiate contact. _I wonder who it is…_ It makes him look busy. The door to the locker room opens. There’s a beat.

“You really gonna ignore me, kid?”

Brice’s breath catches in his chest. For a moment, he freezes, unable to turn around. It feels like a dream he’s had before, one he’s had often. His heart pounds wildly, and an eternity seems to pass before he can force himself to turn around.

“Bell- Bellingham?”

“It’s good to see ya, kid. How are ya?” he smiles.

“I- I’m well. How are you?”

“Doin’ good. Real good.”

Brice has to stop himself from stepping forward and putting his arms around the big man, something he’s never wanted to do to anyone before.

“I didn’t know you were assigned to this station,” Brice says.

“Yeah, I been here since January once I got all healed up. Finally stopped movin’ around and settled in. This temporary for you?”

“No… No, I’m being permanently assigned here… at least, as permanently as one can be assigned anywhere in our line of work,” Brice tells him.

“That’s true enough. Well, I can see you’re all settled in here. The fellas all greet ya when ya come in? Tell ya where to go?”

“Yes, they were pleasant.”

“Good. I’d give ya the grand tour, but I know you’ve worked here before, so you know where everything is,” Bellingham says, “C’mon, lemme get ya a cup of coffee…”

Brice follows him almost in a daze, has to force himself to snap out of it. Certainly he’d hoped to work with Bellingham one day, to be his partner, but he never thought it would actually happen. It’s always seemed like a dream, something just out of reach, just a nice thing to think about when he’s had a rough day of people being horrible to him. Brice wills himself to relax when Bellingham drapes a thick arm around his shoulders. No one has ever been so happy to see him before.

Once they get their coffee and the others are engaged in their own conversation, Brice and Bellingham sit off to the side in the dayroom. Bellingham asks, “So what have you been up to lately, Brice? Besides, uh, hittin’ the beach?”

“Nothing much… just work. I only went to the beach yesterday because my friends invited me to go with them. I think you’ve met them before… Ivy Bowens and Rosie Jardin?”

“Yeah, I think I’ve met ‘em a couple times. They seem like nice girls… C’mon, kid, you musta been doin’ something fun lately besides work.”

“Not really, no…” Brice admits, “I did go to Sacramento a couple of months ago… went to visit Morris Crawford and his family.”

“Yeah? How is he?”

“He’s well. He enjoys his work, and his wife and children and enjoy the area. The children just keep growing and getting bigger every time I see them. It’s startling.”

“I know the feeling. My oldest niece is in college… and my oldest nephew. And my youngest niece is walking now. Never stops freakin’ ya out, honestly,” he says.

They fall into an easy conversation, much easier than Brice has ever experienced, and he begins to wonder when he’ll wake up. _This could only be a dream._ It’s just too perfect. He takes the time to observe Bellingham, marveling at how he still looks exactly the same as when they’d met five years ago: thick frame, dark hair barely thinning at his crown, eyes the same color as a hazy summer sky, a lazy grin on his face, his uniform rumpled with faded stains in places. He looks ordinary and plain and happy. It’s a nice change. Brice just wishes he knew why this makes him so happy.

xXxXx

The day had kind of snuck up on Bob, if he were being honest with himself. He’s known Tuesday was Coolidge’s last day, but he’d damn near forgotten this is Brice’s first day until he saw the old green truck in the little parking lot behind the station. Even now, he feels himself smile as he talks with Brice. The young man has relaxed considerably in the short time they’ve been talking, which Bob counts as a victory. Brice always looks so tense he might snap. To see him almost completely relaxed is an accomplishment.

_This is good._ Brice is almost smiling at him as he speaks, an expression Bob is fairly familiar with, certain he’s never seen the boy smile fully. _Someone probably has, but not me._ Maybe one day, Bob will see a full-blown smile on Brice’s face, but he’s not an impatient man. For now, he simply watches the young man talk, watches silvery eyes flit between Bob’s face and his own fidgeting hands, slender fingers occasionally combing through brown hair or adjusting his glasses, his lithe frame slightly more muscular than Bob remembers. His skin has a reddish tint to it from his day at the beach yesterday, spreading down his forearms and over his cheeks and nose.

“ _Squad 16, report of a woman injured at the park…_ ”

“Well, that could be damn near anything,” Bob comments as they head to the squad.

Brice quietly agrees, climbing into the passenger seat. The park isn’t far away, only a five-minute drive. They find a small crowd gathered in the grass around a woman laying on her back. Stepping up to the group, Bob asks his usual question, “What seems to be the problem?”

“I was teaching a yoga class for beginners, but somebody got some pretty high ideas of what she could do, and- well, that’s the result there.”

The girl speaking to him is fat and pretty, with long reddish brown hair and a crown of flowers circling her head. She continues, “She thought she knew better than me, got herself all twisted up, and musta pulled a muscle in her back or something.”

Bob thanks her and turns his attention to the patient, easily parting the crowd. The woman on the ground groans and complains, clearly in pain… maybe too clearly. Kneeling down, Bob asks her, “How ya feelin’, ma’am?”

“Horrible! I feel like I broke my back! And it’s her fault!”

“How is it my fault?” the girl yells, “If you woulda followed instructions, you woulda been fine!”

“You said this class was for beginners and then started foldin’ yourself in half like a pretzel!”

“I did not! I teach yoga here five days a week, and no one’s complained until you! I know what I’m doin’!”

“Well apparently not! Just look at me!”

“Alright, alright, just calm down,” Bob steps in, “That’s not gettin’ us anywhere.”

“This gentleman here seems to have some insight,” Brice says.

The young black man says, “Billie’s right. She does a great job goin’ slow and lettin’ people know just what to do. Honestly, I think that woman’s fakin’ it.”

“Faking it?!”

The woman pushes herself up with an indignant, “How dare you? Faking-? How could I possibly fake my back being broken?”

“Well, it doesn’t seem to be botherin’ you just now, ma’am,” Bob smirks.

She whips around to look at Bob, her face turning bright red, and with a stammered, “You haven’t heard the last of me!” she stomps off. Chuckling, Bob stands up and steps closer to Brice and the two witnesses.

“Sure hope we have heard the last of her,” Billie says.

“Well, if ya haven’t, don’t be afraid to go to the police and get a restraining order against her,” Bob tells her, “and let ‘em know she faked an injury to try and get ya in trouble.”

“Do you have any idea why she did that?” Brice asks.

“Guess she must think I’m an easy target or somethin’, but I don’t really know. This is the third time she’s been here causin’ trouble like this, tryin’ to tell people I don’t know what I’m doin’ and all kinda stuff like that,” Billie answers, “Wish I knew why.”

“Reckon she’s just jealous, is all,” Bob replies, “You’re prettier and more talented than she is by a mile.”

“Aw, shut up. You’re just sayin’ that,” she blushes.

“I mean it. You just keep doin’ what you’re doin’, okay? Maybe we can stop in and have a lesson sometime, huh, Brice?”

“Perhaps we could. Yoga has always seemed quite interesting to me.”

“Well, we’d love to have you fellas. Beginner classes are Thursday and Sunday.”

“We’ll keep it in mind, Billie. Anyway, c’mon, Brice, we oughta get back to the barn, I think,” Bob says, “Who know what other wonders will await us today…”

They return to the squad, and just like that, they start running almost nonstop, but Christ, they do work well together. They’re already a well-oiled machine, barely needing to speak to do what has to be done. _It’s incredible._ For never having worked together, they certainly don’t show it. Bob has never had such a rapport before, one that few men in the department even experience. It’s something he never knew he was missing. Now he doesn’t understand how lived without it.

xXxXx

The tones drop just before the wakeup, and both Brice and Bellingham groan. Brice has barely gotten enough sleep as is, between the new setting, a couple runs, a guy who snores like a freight train, and a strange feeling in his chest that he doesn’t have time to analyze. He and Bellingham simply jump up and pull on their bunkers and head for the squad. Bellingham yawns, “What’s this call for?”

“A woman bleeding,” Brice answers, “in the 1200 block of-“

“Nah, I heard where, just didn’t hear what it was for… just tryin’ to figure out if I need a shortcut…”

Brice says nothing as Bellingham stifles another yawn, swinging the squad down a side street with only the lights on. _It’s still early. The department would likely get complaints if we hit our sirens._ It’s not long before they pull up to a small house, one of the few with lights on inside. Bellingham bids Brice go ahead, so he mounts the short steps and knocks on the door, answered shortly after by an elderly black man.

“Please,” he says, “it’s my wife. I told Lucy not to, but she don’t listen to me. Here, she’s in the kitchen. Follow me…”

The kitchen would look like a murder scene if not for the old woman sitting calmly at the table with a towel pressed to her forearm.

“Ma’am, are you alright? What happened?”

“I cut myself with the knife on accident,” she replies, “It’s our anniversary today, so I wanted to get started on some special meals for us. I don’t really know what happened. I think I was movin’ and I just slipped a ‘lil and just _shoop_! Cut my arm right open.”

Brice says, “Let me have a look,” and gently pulls the towel away from her arm. Bright red blood is still pouring from a large gash in her forearm, dribbling down to her elbow. He replaces the towel.

“I think you’ll be going to Rampart Hospital, ma’am. This wound needs stitches.”

“S’pose I shoulda listened to you, Harold. I’m gettin’ a bit too old for all this early risin’.”

“Aw, nonsense, sugar,” Harold replies, “Just gettin’ to the point where I hafta spoil ya, is all.”

Bellingham comes in as the couple is making eyes at each other, and Brice can see the big man’s expression soften. _Curious…_ He steps fully into the kitchen, saying, “Well, hi there, Lucy, Harold. Thought this was your house. How ya doin’?”

“I been better, Bob,” Lucy says, “Just made a big ol’ mess today.”

“I can see that. Kid here’s gonna take good care of ya, though. I promise ya that. Now how are you, Harold?”

“Oh, never better, Bob. Ol’ ticker’s been just fine.”

“That’s why I was up so early. I been takin’ real good care of him, makin’ sure he follows his diet and everything. Sometimes he’s stubborn, but we’re gettin’ there.”

Brice quietly wraps up Lucy’s arm as the three acquaintances fall into an easy conversation about a variety of things, Bellingham mentioning a few mutual contacts and inquiring into their wellbeing. It’s astounding. Brice is good at remembering the faces of patients but names usually escape him, if he bothers to get one at all. Bellingham, however, seems to know every patient and their family and friends, too. _I don’t know anyone so well._ That’s probably why people like Bellingham… and why no one likes Brice.

“Would you like to ride in with your friend, Bellingham?” Brice asks.

“If you want me to, but you can if you’d like. Lucy’s a great lady.”

Bellingham’s smile is soft and easy-going, and Brice quickly agrees. The old woman does seem very pleasant, her skin as dark as Rosie’s, her short hair snowy white. She’s still calm as she’s being loaded into the ambulance. Brice is fascinated.

“You’re a quiet one,” she says after a minute.

Brice looks up at her and she continues, “Bob’s always in here yammerin’ away, always talkin’ about this or that or the kids or a bunch of our friends. He’s a real good guy, y’know? You gonna be here for a while?”

“Most likely, yes,” he lies.

“That’s good. He’s gonna be good for you, just like my Harold was for me- well, not exactly. You’re opposites, kinda. It’s always good for opposites to be together.”

“You and your husband don’t seem to be opposites, ma’am.”

“Fifty years together can do that to two people,” she smiles, “I used to be very shy and quiet and somber… hardly ever smiled, laughed even less, always wanted to be the perfect little lady. But then, oh then, this beautiful boy came strollin’ into my life and he made me laugh and smile and wanna act silly, and I knew Harold was the one. He let me be myself.”

“I don’t understand. You said you were-“

“We all have masks we wear for the public, young man, every one of us. The best people to be around are the ones you don’t hafta wear the masks for.”

They pull up to Rampart just as she imparts her wisdom, and a few moments later, Bellingham’s smiling face appears at the back to help unload Lucy. The strange feeling is back in Brice’s chest, heavier and more insistent than before as he gets everything out of the ambulance and heads into Rampart, still thinking about what Lucy said.

He likes his mask. It’s like a security blanket. After years of having people mock him for things out of his control, he’s the one who gets to be completely in control of how he presents himself in Los Angeles, and it’s almost comforting to know that if no one likes him, it’s because he decided it. The idea of dropping such a crucial part of himself is terrifying. _I can’t let that happen._ Chief Saunders told him he had to last two months, so Brice will stay for two months and move on again. He doesn’t know why that thought makes his chest hurt more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It finally happened!


	20. Let Me Help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: some language, mentioned nudity
> 
> Related to my other fic '[I Would Prefer to Stay Alone](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9384587/chapters/21245399)', meaning that i flipped the POVs :)
> 
> Also I'm posting this one a day early bc tomorrow is Thanksgiving and I know I'm gonna be super busy, so Happy Thanksgiving to all of my lovely readers. I'm super thankful for everyone who has been following along with this fic and especially those of you who leave comments <3

Roy and Johnny both arrive at Station 51 at about the same time, having been called to come in a bit early and a familiar green truck is driving away. Inside, they approach Dwyer, Johnny asking, “Hey, was that Brice just pulled away?”

“Yup, he was here working for Keane,” Dwyer answers, “Guess he got a stomach bug or somethin’ and called out last minute, and apparently Brice was the only one they could get.”

“He’s been pickin’ up a lotta extra shifts from what I’ve heard. Roy, didn’t he tells us a couple days ago that he’d worked the shift before?”

“Yeah, he’s picked up at a few different stations lately.”

“Well, fellas, I hate to say it,” Dwyer speaks up, “but I’m a ‘lil worried about Brice. I think he’s overworkin’ himself. He didn’t look a hundred percent when he left just now.”

Roy purses his lips a little. If he’s doing his calculations right, Brice has worked at least five shifts in a row, something generally frowned upon to keep firefighters from getting too tired and making mistakes. Knowing Brice, it’s possible he’s worked more than that. Something like anger flares in Roy’s chest. The department should care more about its paramedics, even one as annoying as Brice. He has to push it down as they get their first call, Roy and Johnny hurrying to the squad. _I’ll check in on Brice later._

xXxXx

The wakeup tones drop, a chorus of groans rising from the six firemen as they force themselves awake. Bob blinks and pushes himself up, yawning widely. Thankfully, they hadn’t been too busy, and they’d all gotten a good night’s sleep at 16s… except Brice. The young man had slept fitfully, tossing and turning most of the night, and even now his movements are sluggish, like he’s sore. _Looks more tired now than when we turned in._ Bob watches his partner without making it obvious he’s watching, sees him sway slightly when he finally stands.

Roy had called yesterday afternoon, asking Bob how Brice was doing.

“ _Just… I talked to Dwyer when we came in and he said Brice was lookin’ a bit, uh, a bit under the weather. I wanted to see how he’s doin’._ ”

“He’s hangin’ in there, Roy. Hasn’t complained or asked to go home or screwed anything up… but I do see what Dwyer was sayin’. I think tomorrow’s probably gonna be when he really starts feelin’ it,” Bob replies, “Hey, I really appreciate ya checkin’ in… Not everybody would.”

“ _I know… well, I hope he’s alright, Bob. Lemme know if ya need anything, okay?_ ”

51s got a call right after that, Roy offering a hurried goodbye before hanging up. _I may need to ask some advice on takin’ care of a stubborn partner._ Bob quietly follows Brice to the latrine, trying not to be noticed. He sees Brice look into the mirror, try to fix his hair, lean on the sink. Deciding enough is enough, Bob slaps on a smile and steps in, saying, “Hey, Brice, better get some coffee if ya- Jesus, kid…”

Brice looks worse up close. His skin is flushed bright pink, especially his cheeks, and is covered in a sheen of sweat. His brown hair sticks up all over the place thanks to how much he perspired during the night. There’s even a shine of fever in his eyes. Bob steps close, gripping one of Brice’s shoulders, feeling a warmer than normal heat under his fingers, noticing that young man who usually stands straight as a spineboard is slumping. He swears quietly.

“You’re pretty warm…” Bob says, “How ya feelin’?”

“I…” Brice’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, “I’m experiencing general sickness behavior… malaise, lethargy, sleepiness… cold sweats…”

“Think ya been pushin’ yourself too hard lately, Brice. When was your last day off?”

“Umm… it was…” he watches Brice force himself to think, which is telling in itself, “It was the 22nd.”

“The 22nd? Jesus, Brice, it’s the 3rd already! That’s like a week and a half!”

“They needed someone to take the shifts. I was the only one-“

“Shut up, kid,” Bob tells him, forcing down his anger, “Hey, do what ya gotta do and then get dressed. You’re gonna stay with me the next couple days so I can keep an eye on ya.”

“Bellingham, that’s not nece-“

“I know it’s not necessary, but I wanna do it, so let me do it, okay? C’mon, get ready to go…”

Bob gets himself ready fairly quickly and pops out to grab a cup of coffee.

“Everything okay, Bob?”

Sauvageau is still in his bunkers. Bob answers, “Yeah, just… Brice isn’t feelin’ well, so I’m gonna give him a ride home, is all.”

“Not contagious is he?”

“Probably not, Harry. I think you’ll be fine. See ya in a few days, alright?”

Brushing off similar inquiries from everyone else, Bob returns to the locker room to find Brice just buttoning up his shirt. _He’s real sluggish. I bet he’s feelin’ terrible._ Bob allows him to carry out his own overnight bag in order to preserve his dignity, knowing the boy doesn’t like to appear weak. The ride to Bob’s apartment is quiet but not uncomfortable. Once there, it’s only a short, three-flight climb to Bob’s place, though the effort clearly exhausts Brice. _He’s definitely feelin’ terrible._ Bob quickly ushers him in toward the couch, saying, “Here, Brice, you just sit here- actually, lay here. You need some more sleep… been runnin’ yourself ragged…”

In a move meant to both reassure Brice and surreptitiously check his temperature, Bob steps close and brushes his hand over Brice’s forehead. He wears a soft smile, pushes some of the brown strands out of the way, tells him, “Get some sleep. You get comfy, and I’ll go get a pillow and a blanket… and don’t be shy or nothin’. I won’t see nothin’ I haven’t seen before, and you need to be comfortable.”

Brice simply blinks at him, makes no moves, like he doesn’t understand what Bob said. With a little sigh, Bob explains, “That means, strip down so your clothes don’t get sweaty, ‘cause you’re gonna sweat pretty good. Now, do that while I get ya a blanket and pillow. Be right back.”

He doesn’t wait to see if Brice does as he’s told, instead slipping back to his bedroom, grabbing a spare pillow off the bed along with a light blanket, hoping it would be enough. December’s only just begun. It’s not particularly cold during the day, but the nights do get chilly. _I’ll have to remember to turn the heat on overnight._ Bob tends to run hot, but a little more heat might make Brice more comfortable. Coming back into the living room, he sees Brice seated on the couch in his underwear, hunched over, head in his hands.

“Shit,” Bob says, “you feelin’ worse, kid?”

“Yes. My head is starting to hurt.”

“Alright, well, here’s the blanket and pillow, so you take these, and while you’re settlin’ in, I’m gonna grab ya a couple ibuprofen, okay?”

Brice nods, so Bob hands everything over, ducking into the bathroom for the ibuprofen, then into the kitchen for a glass of water. When he returns, he sees Brice has made a little nest for himself, settling the blanket on the couch so he can lay on it and wrap it around himself, pillow placed at the end nearest Bob’s recliner. He hands over the pills and water, saying, “Here ya go… take these and lay down for a bit. I’ll be right here, Brice.”

Bob sits in his recliner, watching Brice swallow the pills and drain the glass. Not ten minutes later, Brice is fast asleep. His breathing is even, though not as deep as Bob would like, but it could be worse. Bob clicks on the TV to watch the news for a bit before switching over to the radio. The quiet sounds of music float through the small living room, a nice mix of songs from the last decade or so. It’s pleasant. Bob picks up a half-finished book, taking a couple hours to complete it, though he’s a bit distracted. He keeps looking down at Brice’s sleeping form to check on him.

His partner sleeps peacefully, more peacefully than he did overnight. The boy’s features are lax and calm and youthful. He looks so different when he’s not policing his expression and posture. _He looks like a boy._ Almost without thinking, Bob reaches down and strokes Brice’s hair, fingers occasionally rubbing against his scalp. It’s nice to sit in comfortable privacy and allow himself to express emotion and tenderness like this. The whole scene is peaceful. A few minutes pass, and Bob feels something move against his hand. Looking down, he sees Brice moving slightly, head nuzzling against Bob’s palm. Bob gives a little huff of laughter and keeps up the movement, almost massaging Brice’s scalp.

“You wakin’ up there, pal?” Bob asks quietly, “Feelin’ any better?”

“A little… still a bit fuzzy and achy,” Brice mumbles.

Bob can tell he’s tired because he doesn’t police his speech, his eyes still half-closed, a hand sneaking out from under the blanket to rub at his eyes. _Endearing._

“That’s to be expected,” Bob tells him, “You’re pretty warm still. Lemme get ya another glass of water. Is your head better? I can give ya more ibuprofen.”

“My head’s fine, but it might help the fever.”

He doesn’t really want to, but Bob rises from his chair and follows the same route he did earlier, retrieving two more pills and refilling the glass. Brice carefully pushes himself up.

“You alright? Too cold?”

Goosebumps are breaking out over Brice’s skin, his body wracked by shivers. He says, “I’ll be alright in a moment…” but he continues to tremble. There’s a sheen of sweat over him that likely isn’t helping. Still, Brice manages to swallow the pills and water without much difficulty, though his shivering doesn’t stop. A sudden thought hits Bob, and he heads into his bedroom, quickly grabs what he needs, and returns to the living room.

“Here, kid, I grabbed ya a t-shirt. It’s a ‘lil big, but it might help the shivers some.”

“I-I can’t. I don’t want to ruin it.”

“A ‘lil sweat ain’t gonna ruin it. Shit, it’s just an ol’ t-shirt. I can wash it. Look, I just want ya to be comfortable,” Bob says, drops into the chair, holds out the shirt, “Anything I can do to help you, I wanna do.”

“Why?”

It’s a simple question, but the way it’s asked damn near breaks Bob’s heart.

“Because you're my partner,” he replies simply, “Now, put on the t-shirt… please.”

Still shivering, Brice finally reaches out and takes the shirt, slowly pulling it over his head. The faded green t-shirt hangs off the boy’s frame. Brice’s fingers dance over the hem of the shirt, stroke over the fabric, and he wraps himself back up in the blanket. He sits up, curled up in the corner of the couch beside Bob.

The rest of the afternoon and early evening are quiet, just Bob checking in on Brice every so often and switching the TV back on for the evening news. Bob wants to talk to him, but he doesn’t want to disturb him or tire him out. The silence is a companionable one, at least. In the evening, though, Bob’s stomach starts to rumble, so he heads into the kitchen.

“Bellingham? Where are you-?”

“Just makin’ some dinner, Brice. Don’t worry. I’m gonna heat up some soup for ya while I’m out here,” Bob says, “Just makin’ myself a sandwich while it’s workin’.”

“Please, Bellingham, I can make my own dinner.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried about it. I want to pull my own weight.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I want to. I-“

“Kid, just lemme take care of ya, okay?” Bob rolls over him, “I want to. I want ya to feel like someone cares about ya, like you’re not completely alone. Just-… Just shut up and lemme help, Craig.”

The given name slips out before Bob can stop it. Despite his light tone, Brice flinches slightly, drops his gaze to his lap. _Well, shit…_ Bob gives a quiet sigh and sits beside Brice on the couch. He’s still shivering finely. Slipping an arm around Brice’s shoulders, Bob gently tells him, “Hey, I didn’t mean to upset ya. You’re just so damn mule-headed ‘bout bein’ alone and doin’ stuff alone, I just can’t always wrap my head around it. Like, it’s mind-boggling to me that you won’t ask for help, and I don’t know why.”

“I’m sorry-“

“Don’t be sorry. You don’t hafta be sorry, Brice. I’m just hopin’ I can figure out why.”

Brice still doesn’t look up, but Bob tries not to let it bother him. He simply rises from the couch and heads back into the kitchen to check the soup and finish his sandwich. _I’ll probably never figure him out, but it’s worth a shot._ Brice is a good kid, a good paramedic, and it upsets Bob to think that the boy has been hurt so many times he can’t even understand that Bob wants to take care of him.

Brice runs hot and cold with his moods. One shift, he’ll follow Bob so closely they’re all but tripping over one another, and the next shift, Bob will have to hunt him down to say three words to him. _Almost like he’s tryin’ to push me away._ Thankfully, Bob is nothing if not patient and stubborn, so that sort of treatment doesn’t quite bother him. Nor does it bother him when Brice eats his soup in silence and falls asleep shortly thereafter. _He doesn’t feel well. It’s not his fault._ Bob goes in and washes the dishes, the simple task taking his mind off of everything, just mindlessly scrubs and dries.

When that’s all done, Bob returns to his chair, switching back to the radio as he does so. Quiet music plays over them, and Bob picks up another book, one he’s read a dozen or more times, one he doesn’t really have to pay attention to so he can keep an eye and ear out for Brice.

It’s late when Brice begins to stir, and Bob sets down his book, ready to speak to him… but Brice isn’t ready to talk. He’s got his fists clenched tight in the blanket, his face twitching, eyes rolling under his lids. _He’s havin’ a nightmare. Poor kid’s system is just goin’ haywire from this fever._ Bob doesn’t wake him yet, though. It’s possible he’ll wake up on his own.

“No…” he whines, still asleep, still in the throes of his nightmare, “no, please… not him… not Bob…”

Something twists in Bob’s chest, almost painfully so. He’s momentarily transfixed. He’s never seen Brice display so much emotion before, and it’s fascinating to witness. Brice twists under the blanket, back arching briefly as he lets out another whine, his face a mask of pain and grief. Again, he moans, “Please, no… please… I’ll do anything… anything… I’m sorry, please forgive me…”

There are tears rolling down his cheeks. Bob moves to sit beside him on the couch, grabbing his shoulders, urging him, “Wake up, kid. You’re alright. You’re okay. I’m right here for ya. C’mon, really, wake up…”

Brice comes to with a gasp, shooting upright, drenched in sweat and shivering. Bob reaches for him again, but Brice shrugs him off, a half-wild look in his eyes. His breath is wheezing. Bob’s fingers brush his shoulder. There’s a flurry of movement as Brice shoves him away and staggers to his feet only to take two lurching steps and crash to the floor. He’s breathing hard, his chest heaving.

“Shit! Brice, are you okay?” Bob says, dropping to the floor beside him, hands on his shoulders again, “Tell me what’s wrong. What happened?”

“I- I can’t-! I can’t!”

“Okay, okay… shh, you’re alright, kid…”

He lets his thumbs stroke over Brice’s shoulders for a moment. The boy’s shaking like it’s winter in the far north, muscles dancing under his skin. His cheeks are flushed red. Worried now, Bob brings his hand up to Brice’s forehead. _No good. I can’t get a good read on his temp._ He remembers something his mother used to do, that his sisters do now, and he leans in to press his lips to Brice’s forehead, the heat now all too apparent.

“Jesus, you’re burnin’ up, Craig. We need to cool you off, c’mon… on your feet…”

Brice doesn’t move right away, doesn’t even appear to make the attempt, and though his breathing has improved, Bob is still worried. He gives a sigh and says, “Brice, c’mon, you hafta help me here. I don’t wanna hafta carry you in there, but I will. Hey, you’re breathin’ easier, at least… alright, c’mon… let’s go…”

It’s frighteningly easy to haul Brice to his feet, the young man leaning heavily against him. Bob swallows hard, looping his arm around Brice’s waist to keep him upright. _Poor kid…_

“Awful… I feel awful…”

“Yeah, you look awful, too. C’mon, not too far.”

The short trip to the bathroom takes longer than it should, but Brice does stay on his feet until Bob carefully sits him on the floor, gently brushing a hand over his brow once more, the skin hot and damp. Brice watches him with lidded, fever-bright eyes. It’s almost unnerving. Bob simply starts running some water in the tub, wanting it cool enough to help Brice’s temperature but not cold enough to be uncomfortable. Once he deems the temperature perfect, he lets it run, just waiting for the tub to fill. Brice jerks, tries to scramble to his feet, but Bob grabs him by the shoulders and keeps him on the floor, telling him, “Whoa, whoa, calm down-“

“No-! No, I can’t, please-“

The pleading tone breaks Bob’s heart, but he can’t back down, asks, “Can’t what? What’s wrong?”

Brice doesn’t answer save for shaking his head, “I-I can’t…”

He isn’t sure why Brice is so upset by this, but unfortunately, this isn’t the time to deal with underlying issues. Bob simply sighs, squeezes Brice’s shoulders, tries to calm him.

“Look, if there was any other way to do this. I’d do it. I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable, but I don’t want you sufferin’, either. Your temperature needs to come down, and this is just the best way to do it,” he explains gently, thumbs rubbing over Brice’s shoulders, “You know this. C’mon, you’ll feel better, kid.”

There’s a long moment before Brice finally nods his assent, apparently deciding Bob’s argument is logical. His hands tremble as he reaches for the hem of the t-shirt, so Bob helps him out of his shirt and underwear. The shivering is more pronounced now, Bob able to see every muscle twitch under the skin as he helps Brice into the tub. As soon as he sits, Brice pulls in a sharp gasp, curling up against the side of the tub. His shivers worsen, goosebumps breaking out all over his body.

“I know it feels cold,” Bob tells him, gently placing a damp washcloth on Brice’s forehead, “I promise it’s warm. Water only feels cold ‘cause you’re so damn hot right now. Won’t break the fever right away, but it’ll help.”

He settles his hand on Brice’s arm, moves it slowly, just barely rubbing. _My poor boy…_ Bob wonders if anyone has taken care of Brice since he was a child, if anyone actually took care of him when he was a child. He wonders if Brice has ever been naked in front of anyone before, if he’s ever let anyone in behind those walls of his. _I want to take care of him. I want him to know someone loves him._ So Bob takes care of him.

Bob wets his hand and reaches over to rub Brice’s back, trying to clean off the dried sweat, doing the same to the boy’s shivering flank. Brice is tense, most likely from all the shaking, but maybe also from being uncomfortable. Bob takes it in stride. The situation is simply new to Brice. He just needs to get used to it. He’s probably in pain, too, from the constant shivering.

“Hey, kid, ya gotta relax. I know you feel cold, but ya gotta try to relax your body,” Bob whispers, his hand gently scrubbing over Brice’s ribcage.

Brice only mumbles, “I’m so tired.”

“I know, I know… here, let’s get ya outta the tub there and you can go back to bed, okay?” Bob says, rising to his feet, “Just gimme a second, I’ll be right back-“

“No, don’t go away,” Brice whimpers, grabbing for his hand and catching it weakly.

Bob squeezes Brice’s hand, smiles, assures Brice, “I’m not goin’ anywhere. I just gotta grab somethin’ from the next room for ya. I’ll be right back.”

His free hand sweeps over Brice’s hair, and he gets to his feet, heading into his bedroom. _I knew these would come in handy._ He then goes into the hall closet and back into the bathroom. Brice looks utterly pathetic and miserable, curled up stark naked and shivering in the tub. He helps Brice stand once more, holding him under the arms, letting him lean in close. It’s a strange situation. Bob sees it in professional terms, sees it through his paramedic lenses, but it’s also very intimate, a situation generally reserved for family or lovers. Shaking himself mentally, Bob forces himself to think like a paramedic and drapes a towel over Brice’s shoulders, rubbing slightly to warm him up.

“I grabbed ya another t-shirt, somethin’ dry so you’ll be comfortable, and I remembered I bought a pack of underwear a couple weeks ago but accidentally bought the wrong size. Might fit you, at least… oh, and these sweats here have a tie, so you should be able to make ‘em fit. Just gotta finish dryin’ ya off…”

He tries to toe the line between clinical and gentle, wanting to get done quickly but not wanting to be rough, especially around his legs and groin. Once he’s completely dry, Bob helps him dress once more and leads him out to the couch. Brice immediately curls up, sniffing loudly. Bob sits by him, says, “What’s wrong, the sniffles finally catch up- Hey, somethin’s really wrong. Talk to me, kid. You hurtin’?”

For a moment, Brice only shakes his head, tears slipping down his cheeks, finally choking out, “I don’t deserve all this… I don’t deserve to have you do all this for me, Bob.”

Warmth flares briefly in Bob’s chest at his partner’s use of his given name, but it’s doused by the rest of Brice’s words.

“What? C’mon, that doesn’t make any sense, of course-“

“I don’t… What have I ever done to deserve you being so nice to me?”

To Bob, the answer is an obvious one: “Kid-… Craig, you’re my partner.”

It must not be obvious to Brice because he just stares at Bob, eyes shining. Sighing, Bob shifts his position to fully face Brice, settles his hands on Brice’s shoulders, says, “You’re my partner, Craig. I don’t know how else to say it… ‘cept maybe to say that you’re my friend, too. Sure, you’re a ‘lil odd and kinda closed off, but-“

“But I’ve tried to push you away.”

“Why?” Bob asks simply.

When Brice stares and blinks again, he adds, “Why did you try to push me away?”

His partner’s voice is thick as he answers, “Because it’s easier to stay alone. If I don’t care about anyone, I-… I don’t have to be afraid.”

“Afraid? Afraid of what? C’mon, talk to me.”

Bob tries to soothe Brice’s jangled nerves and emotions, lets his hands slide down to the boy’s biceps, rubbing gently.

“I don’t have to be afraid of losing them,” he admits softly, “It always happens. I-I start to care and then I get abandoned somehow. They either decide they don’t like me anymore or-or they go away or they die… and I hate it, Bob. I hate it so much I never want to feel that way again. If there’s no one, then there’s no one to abandon me.”

 _Well I wasn’t exactly prepared to have my heart broken today, but here we are._ Bob forces his own emotions down, quietly asking, “But it’s hard, isn’t it? Bein’ so alone all the time?”

It’s both satisfying and saddening to see Brice’s expression crumple, his lips trembling. Bob tells him, “Yeah, it’s no fun… I hate to tell ya, kid, but life’s like that. People come and go all the time, whether we want ‘em to or not, but that’s no reason to shut down, to not let anybody else in. I can see where you’d wanna be selective, but ya can’t keep everybody out forever… ‘specially not your partner. I like ya too much, Craig.”

“What?”

He breathes the word like he doesn’t believe what Bob said. _As if I needed more heartbreak._

“I like you. You’re my friend and my partner, and I care about you. I want you to be happy. I mean, if you’re happy alone, I’d leave ya alone… but I don’t think you are.”

Brice ducks his head, and Bob is surprised by the low whine that leaves the boy’s throat. He pulls Brice into a strong hug, doubly surprised by the sob muffled by his shoulder. His hand cradles the back of Brice’s head, fingers threaded through the brown hair, carefully holding him in place. The weak sobs are proof of how tired he is, his hands loosely fisted in Bob’s t-shirt. Bob uses every trick he can think of to soothe his partner: runs a hand up and down his back, cards his fingers through his hair, shushes him gently. Brice keeps crying for a couple minutes, and Bob keeps comforting him.

“There ya go, kid…” he whispers as Brice starts to calm down, “That’s it, just get it all out… I got ya… I got ya, Craig…”

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whimpers, “I don’t want you to go away.”

“And I won’t…” Bob tells him, “I’ll try not to, anyway. I know I can’t make any promises just ‘cause our line of work is pretty unpredictable… Honestly, though, if I’ve hung around six months, I can hang around a lot longer, and I plan to. I like ya, remember?”

“I remember. I like you, too.”

He sounds boyish, almost childlike, but it’s endearing and shows the truth in the statement. Words glimmer to the front of Bob’s mind, words his mother used to say often. _Sweet boy… my gentle, sweet boy, how I love you!_ He smiles as Brice nestles against his side, fitting well against the curve of his flank.

“Hey, you fallin’ asleep on me, kid?” Bob asks, smiling.

“Yes.”

“Alright, well, lemme get outta your way-“

“No… No, I want you to stay… if that’s alright.”

Bob smiles a bit wider. He gives a little huff of laughter, saying, “Yeah, that’s alright, Craig,” and tightens his arm around the boy’s shoulders, keeping him close. _Sweet, gentle boy…_ Bob leans down slightly, brushing his lips over Brice’s forehead, and feels Brice settle into sleep, body slackening against his. He brings his hand up to card his fingers through the brown hair. He feels at peace, more at peace than he ever has… and he begins to believe what his sister told him so long ago. Bob drops into sleep shortly after Brice, contentment thrumming through his system.

xXxXx

 _I must be dreaming. I have to be._ Brice is too comfortable, too at ease, too happy. These aren’t something he feels too often, usually only in his dreams. He lays in place, trying to piece everything together, his mind still fuzzy with sleep. He remembers having fallen ill with a fever, remembers Bellingham taking care of him, remembers having a nightmare, remembers being comforted. It was incredible. Only with Ivy has he ever allowed himself to be so vulnerable… and with Crawford. Normally, he wouldn’t allow himself to act in such a way…

…but there’s something about Bellingham that makes him feel safe and cared for in a way he never has, not even with Ivy or Crawford. Brice can’t quite put his finger on why that’s so, but at the moment, he’s too tired to care. He’s warm and comfortable, still wrapped in his blanket, resting partly on a warm and soft pillow. There’s a gentle touch against his head, a large hand smoothing over his hair. _It’s nice… very nice._ Brice doesn’t want to move. He’s far too comfortable, even as his pillow shifts slightly. _Bellingham._

Sunlight brightens the room, slipping in behind Brice’s eyelids. He stirs, shifting under his blanket, asking, “Bob? That you?”

“Of course, kid. Who else would it be? How ya feelin’?”

“Still tired… still a bit achy… but better overall, I s’pose…”

It feels good to let loose a bit, to let his mask slip a little for someone who deserves to see what’s behind it.

“Well that’s good,” Bellingham tells him warmly, “Anything you need right now?”

“No, not at the moment.”

“Too comfy to move?”

Brice mumbles, “Yes…” and as if to prove his point, he settles back in, head pillowed on Bellingham’s thigh. He tries not to think of the previous night, tries not to think of the secrets he revealed. There’s too much he said he now half-wishes he hadn’t. He simply lies there, curled up, focusing on Bellingham’s steady breaths above him. _I was going to leave._ Two months. Brice told himself he would switch stations again in two months. That was six months ago.

Bellingham murmurs something above him, and Brice looks up, asking, “What was that?”

“Nothin’ really. Just thinkin’ out loud… Hey, you want some breakfast?”

“I suppose… Yes, that would be nice.”

He waits on the couch as Bellingham goes about his tasks, and Brice closes his eyes, once more focusing on the sounds around him. Bellingham moves around the kitchen, pots and pans clanking softly. Birdsong sounds from outside, muffled by the window. The radio plays softly, the music floating through the room.

“ _Someone told me long ago / There’s a calm before the storm / I know; it’s been comin’ for sometime / When it’s over so they say / It’ll rain a sunny day / I know; Shinin’ down like water…_ ”

Soon, Brice can distract himself with smells, too, with bacon cooking and coffee brewing. It’s enough. After a short period, Bellingham calls, “Alright, it’s all ready, kid. C’mon in and make a plate.”

He slowly gets to his feet and makes his way into the small kitchen, Bellingham watching him closely. Brice does feel marginally better, not great but better. The two of them do a slow dance, placing food on their plates and shifting out of the other’s way with practiced ease. Sitting back on the couch, Brice puts his glasses on and eats, suddenly ravenous. He’s halfway done his breakfast before he looks over at his partner.

“Bellingham?”

The big man jumps slightly, blinks at him, “Huh? What?”

“I only wanted to ask if you’re feeling alright,” Brice says, “You seem pensive.”

“Oh, it’s nothin’ you should worry about. Just thinkin’.”

“About what? I’m curious.”

Still hungry, Brice eats another forkful while waiting for Bellingham to speak.

“Truthfully? I was thinkin’ about you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. I was just thinkin’ about what you said last night and tryin’ to put it all together in my head,” Bellingham tells him, “I was a ‘lil confused, that’s all, Brice.”

Curiosity piqued, Brice asks, “What was it about my comments that confused you?”

“I, uh… I don’t really get why ya push people away. I know ya said you’re afraid of people leavin’ and all that, but… you also agreed that you’re lonely. Doesn’t really make sense to me to push everyone away when you’re lonely.”

Brice looks down at his plate. He doesn’t know how to put it into words. _I’ve never tried before… because no one’s ever asked._ There’s a moment of silence before Bellingham continues, “I dunno, it’s just that you know a whole lot about me, but I know next to nothin’ about you ‘cept you’re twenty-six and you’re not from LA.”

“You shared your personal information freely, because you wished to share it with me. I have never wished to be so free with that information myself.”

“But why not?”

“I never found it necessary,” Brice shrugs, “How would our relationship be improved by sharing such personal information?”

“Just somethin’ friends do. I mean, it’s usually a way for friends to bond, y’know? That way they can talk about stuff that’s botherin’ ‘em or one can figure out if somethin’s wrong based off past experiences, stuff like that. If you don’t wanna tell me anything, that’s fine. I’m not mad at ya. But I’d appreciate it if ya would tell me,” Bellingham says simply, “Just… it’d be nice.”

Even Ivy has never pressed him for information like this before and not so politely. This is what he was trying to avoid, getting too close to someone. After a long moment, Brice asks, “What exactly do you want to know about me?”

“Whatever you wanna share. I’m not lookin’ for any deep dark secrets over here.”

Brice falls silent again. _I just don’t know how to put it into words._ He doesn’t want to say the wrong thing or say too much or too little. There’s a fine line he needs to walk. After a minute or so of silence, Bellingham takes the empty dishes in to wash them. Brice listens to the water and the quiet sounds of scrubbing. Wrapping the blanket around himself, he pads into the kitchen and says simply, “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Well, think about stuff I’ve told ya. What do ya know about me?”

Brice searches his brain, says slowly, “I know that you’re from Los Angeles and have lived here your whole life. You love to read and will read anything you get, partially a result of you growing up poor. Umm… You were happy when you were able to avoid the draft for Vietnam because you dislike violence. You have five siblings, four sisters and one brother, all alive, but both your parents and all grandparents are dead. All your siblings have children, and you enjoy doting on your nieces and nephews in every way. You don’t like pickles or mayonnaise. You have no particular taste in music, except that you don’t like disco… And you make friends easily.”

“There, see? These are all things you can tell someone about yourself, even if I already know some of ‘em.”

Brice’s head cocks on instinct, wondering what exactly Bellingham could know. With a quiet laugh, Bellingham tells him, “I know that you don’t like peaches, that ya prefer green apples to red, and pepperoni pizza’s your favorite. You don’t like disco, either, and you’re not big on country or R&B. Somehow, you managed to not get drafted, too, probably ‘cause you were too young still.”

“Not quite. I just got lucky.”

“Yeah… that ya did.”

There’s a soft smile on Bellingham’s face and something unspoken in his words: ‘We both got lucky.’ Heat flushes Brice’s cheeks. Bellingham quickly finishes the dishes, and the two return to the couch. The words tumble around Brice’s brain and mouth.

“I dislike opening up to people,” he says after a moment, voice low.

“That’s alright. Look, kid, I’m not sayin’ ya have to open up to me or anything like that. I’d never do that. I just want ya to feel comfortable opening up to me if ya want.”

Brice looks at his partner. _I believe him. He only wants to help me._ Quietly, Brice explains, “I was born in Florida, northern Florida, and I lived there until I was nearly twenty-one. By then I had accumulated enough money to leave and come to Los Angeles. I had heard of the paramedic program and wanted to join, so I left Florida and came here.”

“What’d your folks think about that?”

“Not much. I imagine they were as pleased to be rid of me as I of them, as we never particularly cared for one another. See,” here’s the first admission, “I have always been rather jealous of your relationship with your family. It seems to be very loving and caring.”

“And yours wasn’t?” Bellingham’s eyes go wide, “Oh my God- They didn’t-? You weren’t-“

“I was never abused, no, not really… nor was I particularly neglected. I had a roof over my head and I was fed and I was provided an education… but my parents did not have any parental feelings toward my siblings or me,” another big admission, “They were both only children, and their parents pressured them to have children. They took care of us, but they didn’t really care for us, if you understand my meaning.”

“I understand,” Bellingham nods.

“I knew I wasn’t wanted, not by them and not by anyone else, not there. So I left. I came here, and I discovered no one wanted me here, either-“

“That’s not true. I want you here, Craig.”

Something flutters in his chest at the use of his given name.

“You’re the only one,” he replies.

“Then why push me away? Why try to isolate yourself from everyone, even people who care about you?”

“Because you might leave,” Brice says plainly, the reasoning obvious to him, “You might get sick of me or annoyed with me and decide to leave.”

“Yeah, you said that before, said people have done that to ya before, but I still don’t get it.”

“Put simply, I would prefer to stay alone than become alone. Being lonely isn’t easy, but at least I’m used to it. I know what I’m in for.”

“Can’t miss what ya don’t have, right?”

“Right.”

Brice doesn’t want his partner’s pity… but it does feel nice. Bellingham sighs, says, “Doesn’t make any sense to me, kid, ‘cause you’re not gonna get rid of me.”

“I could. You could die,” Brice says, fights down the fear, “That’s the nature of the job.”

“Nah, I won’t go that way, and neither will you.”

“We won’t get to decide that, Bob-“

“We will. I say we will. Now c’mere, Craig.”

“For what?”

“Somethin’ else I know about ya. You like a good hug every now and again, so c’mere…”

Brice feels his lips quirk into a quick smile, Bellingham’s hope and good mood infectious. He moves in close, pressing against Bellingham’s side. A thick arm wraps around his shoulder and pulls him in close, warms lips brushing over his forehead. Brice can’t stop the soft sigh that escapes his lips. Contentment floods his body, making him feel warm and loose-limbed and peaceful. _I won’t tell him I was going to leave._ Brice settles in, focusing on the feeling of Bellingham’s hand running up and down his back, and closes his eyes.


	21. Distractions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: death, blood, language... and a brief history lesson

“Christ,” Bob yawns, standing in front of his locker, “Sure hope today ain’t like Valentine’s Day. That was ridiculous.”

Brice murmurs an agreement, stifling a yawn of his own. The shift had nearly twenty runs, some interesting, some pointless, but they’d kept Bob and Brice running all day and all night. Bob slept most of yesterday, only waking for dinner and then going back to sleep. He’s assuming Brice did much the same.

“Bellingham, when we get a moment at Rampart, we ought to check in on that girl and her father that were in that car accident two shifts ago.”

“Yeah, uh… Linda and Jim. We can do that.”

_That was a hard run._ The father and daughter had been headed to a family member’s house when they were hit by another car that blew a red light. (The man wasn’t even drunk or high. He’d simply been in a hurry to get to the bank before it closed.) The father was in pretty bad shape but was at least alert, but his daughter was in a very bad way. Last shift, they’d heard she was doing okay: not yet awake but not any worse. For her kind of head injury, that’s pretty good. Bob yawns again and finishes putting his uniform on.

Looking over at his young partner, Bob feels a sense of pride. Brice has changed a bit in their eight months together. He came to 16s very closed off, extremely quiet and somber, and while quiet and somber can still describe him, he is beginning to open up a little. He’s quicker to learn a patient’s name, to ask questions that will take their mind off their emergency in between the medical questions. Bob has even seen him smile a time or two. _And he’s been good for me, too._ Bob is more able to look at a situation with logic and to rein his emotions in. They’re a bit like Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, both with different ways of looking at the world but able to see through each other’s lens and use each other’s strengths.

“ _Station 16, motor vehicle accident involving a pedestrian…_

“That don’t sound good,” Bob mumbles.

They all head to the scene, which is thankfully close. Police already have the scene secured, an officer jogging over when they park.

“There’s a young woman still trapped in the car, maybe unconscious, maybe intoxicated. We’re not sure. And, uh, we’re not sure how much you’ll be able to do for the pedestrian.”

A man is slumped over the hood of the car, and Bob already has a bad feeling he knows how this is going to go. If Brice’s expression is anything to go by, he knows too.

“Kid, why don’t you take the girl in the car,” Bob says, “I’ll take the pedestrian.”

Sauvageau and Palmer go with Brice, and Cap and Weiss follow Bob. The victim’s midsection is crushed, likely resulting in massive internal bleeding and damage to all major abdominal organs. His prognosis isn’t good. They approach carefully, all three jumping when the man picks up his head. The man is older, just the other side of middle aged, with salt-and-pepper hair. He doesn’t really appear to be in too much pain, which may surprise Cap and Weiss but not Bob. Bob has seen this before.

“Sir, can you hear me?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me your name?”

“Jeff… Jeff Stuart.”

“Do you remember what happened, Jeff?”

“Kind of… I was just- just walking like I do every morning… and then I was here,” the man explains.

“Jeff, do you have any pain?”

“I… I don’t know. I can’t really feel anything.”

_Crushed his spine, too, probably._ He doesn’t voice that concern, instead saying, “Hey, I’m gonna call Rampart Hospital and talk to one of the doctors, and I’ll see what we can do for ya, okay?”

Bob gets the biophone and heads a few paces away from the victim, calling, “Rampart, this is Squad 16.”

“ _Squad 16, go ahead._ ”

“Rampart, I have a male patient, age approximately sixty, who is a pedestrian involved in a motor vehicle accident,” Bob explains quietly, “Patient is crushed between the front end of the car and a tree. No vitals to relay at this time. He is alert and conscious. Patient reports no feeling from the abdomen and down. We, uh, suspect internal injury and bleeding.”

He can almost hear the sigh on the other end of the line before Brackett asks, “ _Do you suspect the possibility of reperfusion injury?_ ”

“I do, Rampart.”

A moment passes, and very quietly, Bob says, “Doc, I’m worried he’s gonna die as soon as we move that car, but we can’t leave him there, either.”

“ _No, I understand, Bob… Explain the risks to the patient, then move the car when you’re ready. Prepare an IV, normal saline and sodium bicarb… and administer morphine. Transport as soon as possible._ ”

“IV normal saline and sodium bicarb, morphine, and transport. 10-4, Rampart.”

Bob sets down the biophone, sighs, scrubs at his face. _Shitty way to start the day…_ He tries not to think as he gets what he needs from the drug box.

“Bellingham?”

Brice kneels down beside him, brow knit, pale eyes looking straight through him from behind those big glasses.

“How’s your patient? The girl?” Bob asks, deflecting.

“Highly intoxicated and refusing treatment,” Brice answers, “She does not appear injured. It seems she fell asleep, and being limp likely protected her. How’s your patient?”

“Not, uh, not good. Got major crushing injuries all through his abdomen, can’t feel anything… He’s probably gonna die.”

“That’s unusually pessimistic of you.”

“I’ve seen it happen before, back before I was a paramedic. Fella got pinned between a wall and a truck at work. Screamed like a banshee when we moved the truck and died not even halfway to the hospital. At least I can give this guy morphine…”

“But… but surely there’s something we can do to save him.”

It’s an interesting twist to have Brice be the optimist, as he’s usually the ‘prepare for the worst’ to Bob’s ‘hope for the best.’ To have the roles reversed is almost comical. If not for the seriousness of the situation, Bob would be laughing. He explains, “The most help we can give him is some morphine so he doesn’t feel the blood rushing back into his abdomen and legs. I mean, I’ve seen grown men pass out after freeing a crushed hand. His injuries… hell, the pain alone could kill him. So, only way to help is morphine and some fluid therapy. Just-… Christ, how the fuck do you tell someone they’re gonna die?”

“Would you like me to do it?”

“No… No, I can do it, kid. I, umm- I just need a minute to get everything, is all…”

He carefully pulls everything out and gets it all ready.

“Would you like me to go with you?”

Picking up his head, he sees Brice’s open expression, the honesty of his question clear. He doesn’t where the Brice he was first paired with went, the Brice who was closed off and cold, but he’s grateful for it.

“Thanks… I’d appreciate it.”

Together they stand and make their way to the victim. The man is still calm as ever, even smiling as they approach. Bob can almost feel Brice’s confusion.

“Okay, Jeff,” Bob says, “I got some stuff here for ya… First thing I’m gonna do is set ya up with an IV with some saline, and then I’m gonna give ya some morphine ‘cause when we move this car, it’s gonna hurt a helluva lot. After that, we’re gonna get ya to Rampart as quick as we can, alright?”

“Alright… am I going to survive that trip?”

“We’re gonna try to have you survive.”

“But you can’t say for certain.”

“No… no, we can’t. And if you’d like me to be completely honest, most people who are involved in accidents like this don’t survive,” Bob explains plainly.

“I see… Y’know, I’m a historian, and I’ve been reading a great deal about the Civil War of late… the Victorians had some interesting ideas about death,” the victim says calmly, “They believed in what’s called a-a Good Death… a death that marked a soul’s a transition to eternal life. A dying person would be surrounded by his family and friends, he was cared for… comforted… and someone would hear his final words… during the war someone would pass those words onto the family…”

“Do you have any final words you’d like us to pass on?” Brice asks softly.

“I don’t know,” the man says, “How’s the girl?”

“She is uninjured, as far as we can tell,” Brice replies, tactfully leaving out her intoxication.

“Good… Good, that- that’s good. Didn’t want that poor girl hurt, too. I don’t blame her for what happened. I don’t blame her. Please tell her that.”

“We will, Jeff,” Bob tells him, “We will… Now, hold still for me… gonna feel a big stick… there we go… I’m just gonna hook it all up… and the morphine…”

Bob pushes the needle into the IV, slowly depressing the plunger, watches as the morphine takes effect. The victim’s eyes glaze over, his muscles relaxing. A strange sensation washes over Bob, one he can’t categorize. It’s strange to be so vividly aware he’s about to witness the death of another human being, and it’s even stranger to have that person be so coherent and aware and prepared. _I hope he gets his Good Death._ Truthfully, Bob feels downright honored to ease his way into whatever afterlife he believes in.

“You ready, Bob?” Cap asks.

“Yeah… Yeah, we can move the car now.”

Cap squeezes his shoulder as he walks by to join Palmer. Brice stays with Bob and the victim, ready to assist with treatment. _There won’t be much we can do, but I’ll be damned if we don’t do our best, anyway._ Bob looks into the victim’s eyes one last time before signaling Cap and Palmer to move the car.

Even through the haze of morphine, the victim is clearly aware of the pain and sensation of blood and fluid returning to his lower body. His head snaps up, his mouth a perfect ‘o.’ He slumps, held up only by Bob and Brice as they lower him onto a backboard.

“Bellingham, I’m losing his pulse,” Brice says urgently, “and his pressure-“

“I know, it’s droppin’ fast. He’s probably bleeding internally. C’mon, kid, we gotta get him into the ambulance. That’s his best chance.”

_Though it’s not a good chance._ Bob tries not to think about that as he climbs into the ambulance with him. He can clearly tell the victim is dying, but there’s nothing he can really do for him. Mr. Stuart needs the hospital. Bob reaches out and settles a hand on the victim’s shoulder, hoping the contact would be enough to get the man to the hospital, checks his vitals. He ends up doing CPR for more than half the trip. Brackett meets them at the door, quickly taking the man into one of the treatment rooms, Dr. Morton taking over CPR. Bob stands numbly in the hall, stares after them, finally retrieves the equipment from the ambulance. His muscles are on fire from doing chest compressions for so long. Dixie sits at the bay station.

“…and I’ll see what I can do for you, Carol, but the schedule’s pretty tight just now. I’ve head that Sharon might be looking for some extra shifts so I’ll talk to her later.”

The nurse walks away as Bob walks up. Dixie has a smile ready for him, as usual, though it falters as he steps up.

“Is it really that bad, Bob?” she asks.

“I think so… Guy was pinned to a tree by a car, couldn’t feel anything below what was pinned, passed out as soon as we moved the car. Hell, I did CPR almost the whole way here. For once, I’m just not that optimistic.”

She gives a little hum of recognition but says nothing. There’s nothing she could say to change his mind or make it better, and she knows it as well as Bob. It’s nice to be around someone who understands.

“Bellingham, there you are,” Brice says, joining them, “I wasn’t sure where you were.”

“Well, ya found me. Uh, Brackett and Morton took the patient when I came in,” Bob explains, “Thought I’d just come find a friendly face.”

Brice nods, and Bob can see the questions bubbling under the surface, questions about the patient, but he’s managing to keep them in, something for which Bob is extremely grateful. They carefully refill their supplies, replacing what was used, Brice’s discomfort clear in in his hurried packing and repacking of the drug box. Bob just lets him do it. If he’s being honest with himself, Bob wants to hang around and get the closure of knowing whether the victim died or not. Dixie tactfully sidesteps the subject, starting a conversation about something innocuous until Brackett and Moron appear.

“Well, we all tried our hardest, but I’m afraid it wasn’t enough,” Brackett says, “The internal damage was too great. There was too much blood loss.”

Bob swears quietly, and Morton adds, “I imagine the pressure from the car was keeping him from bleeding out. There wasn’t much any of us could do. What about the driver of the car?”

“She wasn’t seriously injured,” Brice replies, “She fell asleep, and she was rather belligerent upon waking, enough to refuse treatment. The police have her in custody.”

“Hmm… was she intoxicated?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“That’s a shame… a real shame. One mistake can ruin so many lives…”

Shaking his head, Morton walks off, and Brackett agrees, “She’s in for a nasty shock when she sobers up, that’s for sure,” and follows Morton. Bob heaves a sigh and runs his fingers through his hair. This doesn’t bode well for the rest of the shift. Unease roils in his gut, his chest tightening slightly. He feels Brice shift closer.

“ _Squad 16, are you available?_ ”

They both jump at the sound of the radio. Bob picks it up, replying, “Squad 16, available.”

“ _Squad 16, respond to a call for a woman collapsed…_ ”

Thankfully, the rest of the day is busy enough to keep them occupied and nothing more serious happens than some broken bones. Neither one mentions what happened that morning until late in the evening, almost at bedtime, when Brice asks quietly, “What will happen to that girl? From this morning?”

“What do ya mean?”

“You know what I mean, Bellingham.”

“Well, she’s in jail now,” Bob says slowly, “I imagine she’ll be charged with a DUI, with some traffic violations… she’ll probably be charged manslaughter at the least. Her and the Stuarts, whoever they may be, are gonna have a lot to deal with after this morning.”

“Was the victim married?”

“I think he had a ring, yeah, but I dunno for sure. That’s for the hospital to deal with.”

They’re at Rampart not long after that, and Dixie is preparing to leave.

“Hey there, young lady,” Bob calls, “Shouldn’t you be home already?”

“Don’t get me started. I shoulda been outta here three hours ago. It’s been a madhouse. Oh, I wanted to tell you we finally located Mr. Stuart’s partner.”

“Partner?”

“Yeah, he was a nice fella… just real broken up over losing Mr. Stuart. He’d been on a plane home from a business trip, that’s why we couldn’t contact him earlier.”

“At least you finally found him. Christ, I can’t imagine…”

“While we’re here, is there any word on that father and daughter we brought in the other day?” Brice asks.

“The father’s got an infection, but he’s healing pretty well. The daughter’s not doing too good, though. Her pressure dropped unexpectedly overnight and they’re not too hopeful.”

“Damn… well, thanks, Dix. You get home safe now, okay?” Bob tells her.

She bids them farewell and leaves the hospital. The two paramedics head to the emergency bay to replenish supplies, greeting the nurse there. Brice is fidgeting again, once more counting the drug box over and over, and Bob lets him. It’s easier than trying to stop him, particularly when they hear a call for a Code Blue in the ICU. Bob turns, asking the nurse, “Who’s in that room?”

“That girl who was brought in the other day. Her and her father were in a pretty bad car accident. It’s a shame. She looked pretty good yesterday, but overnight she just tanked.”

_Yeah, today definitely qualifies as a bad day._ Bob scrubs at his face. Brice hastily pulls everything out of the drug box only to put it back in. He allows Brice one more round before leading him out to the squad to put everything away.

“Would you like me to drive?”

“Go for it, kid. Probably for the best.”

“I agree. You-… You seem distracted, Bellingham.”

“Wonder why that is…” he mumbles, sees Brice’s slightly wounded expression, sighs, “I’m sorry, kid. Just- It’s fucked up. It’s real fucked up.”

“I agree.”

Brice takes the scenic route back to the station. It’s a bit longer than going direct but not by much, and it takes them through a bar district. The neon lights flashing by are enough to distract Bob for a little while.

They get two more runs overnight, one for a drunk woman and one for a man who OD’d, and Bob is just beginning to think they’ll get some sleep when the tones drop for a structure fire.

“I think I know the address,” Brice says in the squad.

“Yeah? Been there before?”

“I believe so. If I’m not mistaken, we’re in for quite the fight,” he explains, “This is a hoarding house, Bellingham.”

“Really? Fuck, that’s all we need…”

Hoarding fires are awful. The house is always packed so full, and if it’s the right material, the whole place can go up like a match. Victims are usually dead on arrival, suffocating from smoke or lack of oxygen or being buried and burned alive, unable to get out. Bob’s seen enough of them to know that much. The captain of 127s meets them.

“Neighbors say there’s only one person who lives here, an old man who collects a lotta junk. He’s not outside, and the neighbor admits she hasn’t seen him in a few days but also admits that’s not unusual. Go on in and look for him, but be smart, okay?”

The two of them return to Squad 16 and suit up with air tanks and masks. Weiss goes ahead and breaks in the door, black smoke pouring out. Bob swears quietly. _Today’s just one of those fuckin’ days._ Their innocuous runs have done nothing to improve Bob’s mood. He’s still struck by their first run, by the tragedy of the girl from the other day dying. Even as he and Brice go into the house, he’s trapped in a cycle of thought, asking himself why bad things happen to ordinary people. Why do some live and others die? Why does he have to come to work and see good people die when people who should have died long ago live? He’s seen families ruined, lovers torn apart, children die before their parents, lonely old people dying alone-

There’s a scream, and Bob slams to the floor hard.

xXxXx

Brice turns and watches Bellingham briefly as the big man guides the squad to the familiar address. They’ve had a rough couple of shifts between the last one and this one, and Brice can see the emotional toll it’s taking on his partner. _I’m not exactly unaffected myself._ Death is hard on everyone. It simply manifests in different ways. Brice is better at compartmentalizing than most, though Bellingham isn’t bad at it, either. That’s why his current distraction is bothersome… and more than a little worrying.

Black smoke pours from the small house as they arrive. The familiarity of the house becomes startlingly clear to Brice. While before he couldn’t quite remember the specifics of this address, he can recall now that he’s been here several times to treat the sole resident, a Mr. Stephens, a lonely old man with a house piled full of useless objects and garbage. Mr. Stephens’ family had apparently tried to help early on, but Brice last heard they hadn’t been around in a while. He tries not to think of that now, though. He needs to focus on the current run.

The captain of 127s doesn’t tell them anything Brice doesn’t already know, adding, “Go on in and look for him, but be smart, okay?”

_He’s likely dead already._ It’s not the nicest thought, but Brice can’t help but think it. Mr. Stephens probably died a day or two ago, and if not then, he died in this fire before they arrived. _But as the old saying goes, ‘Ours is not to question why…’_ Brice follows Bellingham, pulling on all his gear and heading for the front door. Weiss breaks it in with one solid blow, more of that thick black smoke rolling out, and Brice is grateful he can’t smell anything. He knows what’s in this house, after all, and he can only imagine what the smoke smells like.

The home’s interior is filled with stuff. A mix of refuse and random objects are piled almost up to the ceiling, tendrils of smoke creeping out from beneath and behind. Fear ratchets up in Brice’s body, crawling up his spine and tensing his muscles. Brice hates hoarding fires, hates the close spaces, hates the precarious heaps ready to topple at any moment, the maze-like environment where one wrong move spells disaster. There are just too many variables for his liking. Bellingham, usually completely predictable in his steadiness, is distracted and off. Brice sticks as close to him as possible, wanting to be sure nothing will happen to him in his distracted state.

After a couple minutes, they come to the hallway that leads back to the bedrooms and find it completely blocked. Brice swears quietly. _Mr. Stephens is probably dead._ No one could survive this noxious smoke for long, certainly not someone with health issues like Mr. Stephens. Brice turns, urging Bellingham to follow. _We need to get out of here._ He can feel Bellingham behind him as they pick their way out of the house, between all the mountains of stuff. More than one pile wobbles ominously as they pass. Almost to the door, Brice turns to say something to Bellingham. He’s about ten feet back, just looking around the crammed room, looking everywhere but the wavering mass behind him.

“Bellingham, come on!” he shouts, “We have to get out!”

He gets no response, as if Bellingham doesn’t hear him. Brice calls his name again, steps forward. Bellingham turns away from him as the pile begins to collapse.

“BOB!”

Brice darts forward, grabbing Bellingham and yanking him back as hard as he can, both of them toppling to the floor just as the avalanche occurs, both of them just inches away. That seems to shake Bellingham out of his distraction long enough for him to stand and haul Brice to his feet. They make it outside in short order. Brice is shaking. Cap comes over to the squad, asking, “Find anything, fellas?”

“No, the hallways are blocked,” Brice explains, “I’ve been in there before. The kitchen is completely inaccessible, as is one of the two bedrooms. Honestly, with all the smoke in there and the victim’s poor health, it is unlikely he survived.”

“How’s the interior?”

“Awful. There’s a lot of smoke, but we couldn’t find a source for it. Not even a glow.”

Cap swears, takes off his helmet, runs a hand through his hair. Brice sympathizes. The linemen are certainly going to have a hard time in there. In the meantime, however, there’s not much for Brice and Bellingham to do. They sit together on the running board of the engine, waiting until they’re needed. Bellingham is distracted, simply watching the commotion around the house with a strange expression, one almost blank and vacant. Something stirs in Brice’s chest, the fear that had crawled up his spine now wrapping itself around his heart. This is not the Bellingham he knows, not the unflappable man who is always so positive. _I just don’t know how to help._ He always says the wrong thing at the wrong time, says it the wrong way, but he’s seized with the urgent desire to help this man. Reaching up, he gives Bellingham’s shoulder a little shake, asks, “Bellingham? Bellingham, are you alright?”

There’s a moment before Bellingham responds, almost visibly shaking himself before turning to Brice. He says nothing, and that frightens Brice more than anything else. Brice drops his voice lower, almost inaudible over the din, and tells him, “Please… Bob, you’re scaring me.”

Bellingham blinks, sighs, swears, says, “Shit, I-I’m sorry, kid. I just-… I guess I’m havin’ an off day. So much shit’s happened today… then this happened on top of it all…”

“You were almost buried under a pile of-of-… of shit in there because you weren’t paying attention,” Brice tells him, “I was terrified.”

“I bet you were… Jesus, I’m so sorry, kid. I’d be actin’ the same way if our positions were reversed.”

“What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

“Just-… Lotta death today… Lotta bad shit. Even a guy like me can’t handle it all the time, y’know? It just- It affects ya sometimes. I dunno, it’s hard to explain.”

“I understand, Bellingham. Just… I would prefer to talk things out between us.”

Bellingham huffs out a laugh, says, “No offense, but that’s kinda funny comin’ from you, Mr. Closed-Off.”

“I suppose that’s true enough.”

There’s a moment’s pause, enough time for Brice to collect his thoughts and speak again, his voice still low, “I know I’m often closed off and that I don’t share my emotions readily, but-… but in cases like this, I think it best we agree to discuss what’s bothering us. Your distraction was nearly fatal-“

“That’s a bit dramatic-“

“-and I don’t want to get into a similar situation in the future,” Brice presses on, “We’ll have to police each other, to poke and prod when we otherwise might not wish to. We’ll probably make each other angry sometimes, but if it keeps one of us from being hurt, I believe it will be worth it, Bellingham.”

The big man looks him over, expression not quite readable but definitely tinged with softness, and Brice simply waits for him to speak.

xXxXx

Brice looks up at Bob plainly, guilelessly, patiently. The old phrase floats through Bob’s mind once more. _My dear, sweet boy…_ Bob almost can’t believe that Brice is willing to give up some of his own comfort in order to keep him safe, but here he is, offering to talk through a series of emotional distractions, something far from his strong suit. How can Bob refuse?

“Okay, Brice… Okay, that sounds good to me.”

“Wonderful. Talk to me.”

Bob can’t hold back the snort of laughter. Brice’s brow knits in confusion, and Bob explains, “Sorry, I didn’t really mean to laugh. It’s just-… Brice, you’re awful blunt, and it’s refreshing.”

“Refreshing?”

“Yeah, most people have a talk like that and forget all about it, but not you. You know what you wanna do and do it, go get the information you want, all that. It’s nice.”

“You’re the only one who thinks so.”

“And you’re modest.”

“Modest? Bellingham, I don’t-“

“Brice, you have more friends than you think. I want you to try and remember that.”

Color floods into Brice’s cheeks, his gaze falling to the asphalt. The image makes Bob smile, as does Brice’s murmured, “You still haven’t told me what’s bothering you.”

“S’pose I haven’t,” Bob admits, rubbing the back of his neck, “It’s just kinda hard to explain, is all. I mean, I guess at its base it’s pretty simple. There was too much death today, and each one was sad in its own way. The guy this morning was just goin’ about his daily routine, waitin’ for his partner to come back from a business trip… The girl who just wanted to spend a few days with her family got cut down before her time… The old guy who cut himself off from all his family and friends, died all alone in there ‘cept for all the shit he felt was more important… It’s sad. I’m just sad, Craig.”

“It’s more than sadness. I- I’ve seen you sad before. This is something else.”

_He knows me so well already and it hasn’t even been a year yet._

“Reckon you’re right. There’s, uh… There’s a lot goin’ on, a lotta emotions rollin’ around… makes ya do a lotta thinkin’ about- well, about death. About the victim’s death, your own death, deaths that affected ya in the past. Ya just get to thinkin’ about heavy shit like that, is all.”

“Death does seem to beget thoughts of death. It’s human nature.”

“Shitty facet of human nature.”

“They can’t all be pleasant, unfortunately,” Brice comments.

Bob gives another little snort of laughter. _And the kid has a wicked sense of humor he’d absolutely deny having._ The first light of dawn breaks over the horizon, the inky dark of the night sky fading away. Bob is forcibly reminded of how little sleep they’ve gotten, how tired he is. _You can’t keep doin’ this forever._ He shakes Easter’s words from his mind. That’s not what he needs just now. Instead, he quietly asks Brice, “You okay, kid? Anything you wanna talk about?”

“Not rea-…“ he starts, pauses, wets his lips, “I just… I suppose I’m saddened, too. As you said, Bellingham, we saw a lot of death today… unnecessary death. The people who died today all have family, all have people who care about them… Even Mr. Stephens’ family will come together to mourn his loss, no matter how upset they were with him. I always-… I always think that seeing death will get easier, that I’ll be less affected by it, but-“

“It never gets easier, Brice. It only gets easier to deal with… until it’s not.”

“I’ve done well so far. I’ve managed to put everything in a box and keep it all in there… but what happens when it all becomes too much?” Brice asks, his volume dropping, “What happens when the box overflows?”

“That’s what I’m here for. You tell me when it’s all too much, and I’ll take care of you, kid, okay?”

The boy shifts closer to him there on the running board, their sides just pressed together. Bob hears the ‘thank you’ in the simple action, and he murmurs, “You’re welcome.”

They just sit together, quietly watching the scene until they’re called to assist once more.


	22. I'm Right Here With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Related to [chapter 28](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4278609/chapters/14330734) in 'Oh, There You Are.'
> 
> Warnings: language, blood, mentioned child death/suicide.
> 
> (sorry for the lateness.. i was waiting to see if i had to pick up a friend at the airport and then the 'lil kitty had a vet appointment and honestly i almost forgot it was thursday whoops! but it is thursday still so here's the new chapter :D )

Ivy and Rosie both scramble to get ready for work, having hit snooze on their alarms one too many times, their dance around one another not as elegant as usual. They bump into one another several times, almost forget pieces of clothing, everything. The Fourth of July is an all-hands-on-deck kind of day, so plenty of girls have picked up dispatch shifts for the day, ready to handle the high volume of calls.

“Ivy, hurry up! We’re gonna be late!”

“Yeah, I know, but this goddamn zipper is stuck and I can’t-“

“Well, why didn’t ya tell me, dummy? C’mere so I can help…”

A couple sharp tugs and Rosie has the dress zippered in no time. Breakfast is a piece of fruit to eat in the car, and both hurry out the door, running right into Craig.

“You two are running late,” he comments.

“Tell me about it,” Rosie grumbles.

“Perhaps you both shouldn’t have been up all night.”

“And just what do ya mean by that, Craig?” Ivy asks.

“I only mean that you shouldn’t be up all night,” he says lightly, then adds with an air of mischief, “and perhaps you shouldn’t be quite so loud, either.”

Rosie makes a choking noise, and Ivy almost falls down the stairs, missing a step in her surprise. _I never thought we were that loud._

“You- you could hear us?”

“From the hallway, yes. I’m surprised you haven’t gotten more noise complaints, but I suppose the walls here are actually fairly thick… just not the doors.”

He turns, wearing a look of mischief to match his tone. _The ‘lil shit…_ They head down to their cars, the old green truck and orange Beetle parked next to each other with Rosie’s blue sedan parked next to the Beetle.

“I expect the police will be as busy as we will,” Craig says, climbing into his truck.

“Oh, I know we will be,” Rosie tells him, “and you’ll see ‘em ‘cause the cops are probably gonna be everywhere you are today, breakin’ up fights and diverting traffic around accidents.”

“That’s very true. Have a good day, you two,” Craig says.

“You too!”

“Well, sugar, you ready for the onslaught?” Rosie asks.

“Ready as I’ll ever be…”

Ivy gets them to work in fairly short order, and they’re barely seated at their stations when they receive their first calls, Ivy calmly answering, “911, state your emergency.”

xXxXx

All things considered, Bob and Brice could have been given a worse assignment to start their day than parade duty. They even get a spot in the shade along the route. Parades are easy. Nothing ever really happens besides someone fainting from heat, and even then that happens rarely enough that Bob’s only seen it a handful of times. Bob’s excited, in any case. He loves parades, always has, ever since he was a boy. _They’re just fun to be at, is all._ Leaning against the barricade, Bob looks over at his partner, grinning.

Brice is not smiling at all, but he does offer Bob the hint of a smirk, the most he’s likely to get from the boy today. He hadn’t seemed too thrilled with parade duty even after Bob explained it would be the easiest duty they get all year. Of course, Bob is willing to let it go. He’s willing to let a lot go where Brice is concerned. He’s very fond of the boy, fonder than he’d ever expected to be.

Looking over again, he sees Brice huff quietly, wiping more sweat from his brow. _Yeah, it’s hot alright._ Sweat pours down Bob’s back and chest and face, and he knows his shirt is going to be soaked through despite the shade. There’s not a breath of air moving but thankfully, the two paramedics aren’t needed during the parade. Once it’s over and they’ve shrugged off a couple of drunk women who are very enamored of firemen, they return to the squad.

“You okay, kid?” Bob asks when Brice huffs again.

“No,” Brice replies, definitely not pouting, “I’m hot and I’m very sweaty and I just had to spend half my shift at a parade.”

“Don’t be dramatic. Two hours is not half the shift.”

“It was three hours and twenty-eight minutes.”

“Still not half the shift.”

A long-suffering sigh leaves Brice’s lips, but it makes Bob smile. The boy is inexplicably dramatic sometimes and always over something inconsequential, very unlike his unruffled persona he presents to the world. It’s endearing, though, and it’s an easy target for some light-hearted ribbing.

“Alright well, we’re goin’ back to the station now, so you can relax-“

“ _Squad 16, are you available?_ ”

They both groan.

“Squad 16, available.”

“ _Squad 16, respond to an unknown injury at the Emerald Café, police are onscene…_ ”

“Probably a fight,” Bob says, “Two drunks got into it and bashed each other's heads in. Happens all the time there."

"And how do you know that?" Brice asks, looking over at him.

"Because I been runnin' rescues there longer'n you been in the department, that's how."

He doesn’t need to look at Brice to see his pursed lips and faintly disbelieving expression. _Well, it’s true._ The Emerald Café is a hotspot for drunken disputes, usually requiring the presence of police and paramedics at least once a week.

" _Squad 51, respond with Squad 16. Report of a fight, Emerald Café…_ "

"That does not sound like two drunks simply bashing each other's heads in," Brice comments.

Bob simply shrugs, telling Brice where to turn. _Can’t be right all the time._ Outside the grubby bar are four squad cars and five patrons cuffed with zipties on the sidewalk. They’re a little bloody, but no one really looks any worse for wear. Having two squads doesn’t really make sense unless someone’s hurt bad. There’s a clatter, and a police officer calls from the door, “Hey! We need you fellas inside quick! This guy's bleedin' out!"

"Brice, you go," Bob says quickly, "I got the equipment."

He’s faster, after all, and Bob is a better packhorse. It’s not even a minute before Bob’s in the bar. The stench inside could drive away a skunk, the smells of body odor, alcohol, blood, and stale smoke making a dreadful combination. Brice is on his knees beside the victim, who’s lying on his back. Blood covers the floor beneath him. Brice is certainly kneeling in it, his hands tightly gripping the man’s thigh, blood staining his skin. Bob steps up with all the equipment, calmly asking, “What’ve we got, kid?”

"A deep laceration to the inner thigh, likely severing the femoral artery. I need a pressure bandage and a tourniquet," Brice says, asks the officer, "What happened to him?"

"A big fight broke out in here for one reason or another, and this guy got caught up in it. Someone broke a bottle and cut him. He was so drunk he didn't even realize it until he hit the floor."

Bob hands Brice what he asks for while the officer talks and watches the boy work a moment before calling Rampart. The two of them quickly fall into their easy back and forth, Brice giving Bob the information and Bob relaying it to Rampart, finally calling to his partner, “Brice, IV D5W and transport.”

"You start it. I want to keep an eye on this tourniquet to make sure it won't be too tight. Over here…” Brice directs, his eyes flicking over the patient, “no, the other arm…"

The IV is the easiest thing to do at this point. The patient is very drunk, is limp and pliable, and that’s about all Bob can hope for with an IV stick. He forgoes his usual warning of ‘Big stick’ since the patient is unconscious. Brice leans over the patient, attention focused on the tourniquet, and Bob slips the needs into the vein. _Nice and easy…_

There’s a pained cry as the patient suddenly moves, his limbs jerking, his knee smashing up into Brice’s face. Brice falls back, lands hard on his ass as 51s comes in, Johnny darting forward to help. _I sure can’t._ Despite wanting nothing more than to go to his partner, Bob now has to calm their suddenly awake patient and try to keep him from moving too much. He spares a glance at Brice. Blood pours from the boy’s nose and drips off his chin, spotting his shirt and adding to the ghastly mess on his hands and pants. He hears Johnny talking to Brice, calming him. _Good. He’ll take good care of him._

A few guys in the department have started to see the light regarding Brice, have begun treating him better. Johnny and Roy and their crew are a great example, as is Sauvageau on their own shift, and Dorset at 45s. They’ve come to understand Brice’s quirks, and while they aren’t always fond of him, they respect him. That’s more than Bob can say for many in the department. He hasn’t had to go on full defense yet, but woe betide the man who makes him do so.

The patient moans, and Bob focuses in, checking the IV and tourniquet with Roy’s help. He’s got a grim look on his face, a dark cloud hanging over him, but Bob knows better than to ask him about it. He just asks Roy to help, knowing work will help keep his mind off whatever’s bothering him.

xXxXx

_At least my nose isn’t broken._ Dr. Early smiles at Brice warmly when he tells him so, not faltering as he adds, “You're gonna have some pretty spectacular bruising for a week or so, but the soreness will go away soon."

"Thank you, Dr. Early."

His voice already sounds less distorted, for which he’s grateful. He and Gage are the only ones left in the room now, and Brice belatedly realizes he’s grateful for Gage, too. _He’s not much older than I am._ People like Gage. He’s pleasant and goofy and easy-going, and he even looks likeable, all gangly limbs and long brown hair and warm eyes and a crooked smile. Brice likes him, too, ever since Gage was the one who found him at the brushfire last year.

Early closes the door, and Gage steps up, saying, "You oughta get cleaned up, Brice. Ya look like a horror show. Here, lemme help."

"I don't require assistance."

"I want to help, how 'bout that? Just sit…"

Words from six years ago come flooding back, words spoken by a blonde girl leaning in her doorway. Brice casts his gaze down at his lap and his blood-covered hands, sending covert glances Gage’s way. The other man grabs a clean towel and some cold water in a bowl before Brice realizes what Gage meant by help. Brice starts fidgeting, uncomfortable with how close they’re about to be. Only Bellingham has ever seen him so vulnerable, and that was a very special circumstance. _But he has seen me vulnerable. He did back at the brushfire._ Gage’s fingers grasp his chin, gentle and calloused, the cold towel swiping over his face. He lets his eyes slip shut, focuses on the sensation.

"Say, Brice… can I ask you somethin'?"

"I suppose."

"It's just-… well…” he sounds trepidatious, “You didn't really seem fazed by what happened, by gettin' hit in the face. I mean, ya looked hurt, definitely, but not, I dunno, not bothered by it."

"That isn't a question, Gage."

"You know what I mean."

_Yes, I suppose I do._ The information Gage is seeking is a bit more personal than Brice cares to share, but he owes his fellow paramedic that much. Sighing quietly, Brice explains, "My childhood was neither exemplary nor horrible. I wasn't neglected, but my parents didn't particularly know how to care for me and didn't care to figure out how. At school, I was bullied, even by my teachers on occasion. The other children were physical and enjoyed hitting me, so I'm actually used to bleeding from the nose. If you would like me to be entirely truthful, some of the other firemen in the department haven't been too kind to me, either."

Gage’s hands still completely, the towel resting on Brice’s chin. He finally opens his eyes, sees rage bubbling under Gage’s expression. _You weren’t so kind at the start, either._ It’s a savage thought to direct at the other man, true though it is. Gage had certainly been rude to him in the past, but at least he’d never physically assaulted him.

“Who was it?” Gage asks, his voice almost a growl.

“Who was what?”

"In the department. Who hurt you? I wanna know."

Brice shakes his head, saying, "No. I don't want any more trouble. It's over. It's all in the past."

"It's bullshit," Johnny tells him, hands moving again to wipe the blood from Brice’s face, "You're supposed to be able to trust your fellow firemen, shouldn't be afraid of 'em. They're grown men. They oughta now better."

Gage falls into a brooding silence, his words trailing off into nothing, and Brice says nothing. He simply lets himself enjoy the feeling of the cold towel caressing his face. Even though anger is still evident in Gage’s expression, his touch remains gentle. _I’m sure his earlier run still has him upset. I would be upset, too._ Both Gage and DeSoto were greatly affected by their call for a child who’d apparently attempted suicide and come dangerously close to succeeding, could still succeed. It’s a dreadful thing for everyone involved. It probably has something to do with Gage’s anger and gentleness now, and Brice can’t find it in himself to complain.

Once all the blood is off his face, Gage moves to Brice’s hands, which is a bit odd until Brice realizes Gage is on autopilot. His jaw is clenched.

“Gage…”

No response. He keeps delicately cleaning Brice’s hands.

“Gage?”

He twitches a bit but doesn’t otherwise move except to clean Brice’s other hand.

“John?”

The tactic works. Gage blinks confusedly, meets Brice’s eyes, looks down. His cheeks flush pink, and mumbles, “Umm-… shit, I’m sorry, Brice. I don’t- I just- I wasn’t even-“

“Thank you, John.”

Brown eyes meet Brice’s again, and he desperately hopes Gage knows everything he’s being thanked for: for helping him, for patience, for kindness and gentleness and righteous anger. A moment passes, and Gage offers him a smile, says, “You are very welcome, Brice.”

_He understands._ Brice even lets him finish wiping the blood off his hands, which he does just before Bellingham comes in. The big man is smiling as broadly as ever, asks, “Everything okay, kid? Nothin’ broken?”

"No, nothing broken."

"Well, that's good. I was worried about you, y'know? Ya looked like a guy in a horror movie or some shit, you were covered in so much blood."

Bellingham steps in close, one of his thick hands gripping Brice’s shoulder. He can feel the care and concern rolling through his partner. A small smile creeps onto his face, and Brice tells him, "Gage took excellent care of me. I'm feeling fine, Bob, really…"

He hopes the use of his partner’s first name will ease his worry. Gage quietly excuses himself, and when the door closes, Bellingham’s easy façade drops a little, his big hands coming up to cup Brice’s cheeks. He casts a critical eye over his face, finally clucking his tongue after a moment and saying, “Well, you’re gonna be bruised up a while probably, but ya can work, at least. Sure you’re feelin’ okay?”

“Yes. I told you I feel fine. Much of the swelling seems to have already gone down. You should have heard me when I came in. I sounded like I had a terrible cold.”

“Yeah, I bet ya did.”

His hands are still cupping Brice’s face, and one of his thumbs skates over Brice’s cheekbone. He lets himself smile a little bigger. Bellingham is close enough to not be blurry, his expression safe and warm, his touch gentle. It’s pleasant, very pleasant, this easy intimacy they’ve cultivated in such a short period of time. _I never thought I’d have it, have something like this._ Even what he and Ivy have isn’t quite like this. Even she doesn’t know him like Bellingham does. They stay like that for a few seconds more, Bellingham cupping his face, both smiling. Finally, Bellingham pats Brice’s cheek and pulls his hands away. Brice tries not to shudder at the loss.

“Here’s your glasses, kid,” Bellingham says, passing them over, asks, “Say, what’s up with Roy and Johnny? They both seemed kind of- I dunno… upset, I guess? Johnny tell you anything?”

“They went on a difficult run this morning. A child took an overdose of antidepressants.”

“Yeah, those are always hard. Y’know, kids just get into everything and parents blame themselves for accidents-“

“Bellingham, it wasn’t an accident.”

“It-… What?”

“An-… umm, an eight year old child tried to kill herself by overdosing on her mother’s antidepressants, though Gage didn’t tell me why,” Brice explains quietly, “I can make assumptions as well as the next person, but I can’t say for sure.”

Bellingham swears, says, “Christ… didn’t think kids that age knew what suicide was.”

“Children know more than we give them credit for,” Brice shrugs, “especially when it comes to things like this… like sadness and death.”

He’s looking down at his lap, refusing to look at Bellingham for fear he’d just let too much slip. _My uniform needs to be laundered… and I need a shower._ Brice wrinkles his nose at all the blood, wincing at the pain, showing no other emotion.

xXxXx

Brice isn’t looking at Bob, and Bob thinks that may be for the best. This way he can’t see the look of naked shock on Bob’s face. He’s an expert at reading between the lines where Brice is concerned, and so he knows that Brice means he knew about suicide at age eight. _Maybe he even thought about it once… more than once._ His heart thumps painfully in his chest. Inching closer, he murmurs Brice’s name, and the boy finally looks up at him, his expression carefully schooled. He wears a good mask, but Bob can see right though it.

“Craig…”

He wraps his arms around the boy, holds him tight, fights the shiver rolling up his spine at the thought of a world without Craig Brice in it. Brice tenses at first but quickly lets himself relax, his hands slipping up to grip Bob’s broad shoulders.

“You know… Bellingham, we need to call in available soon and get back to-“

“We will,” he mumbles, “just lemme have this now… please, kid…”

He can’t explain what has him so frightened, so worked up, so desperate, but it’s got him. He just clings to Brice, needing to know he’s here. As if Brice knows what he needs, he whispers, “It’s okay… Bob, I’m okay. I’m right here with you… I’m right here.”

_And I’m happy to know it._ Bob gives him a final squeeze and lets go. Brice looks up at him, his expression softer now. It soothes whatever violent fear had seized him, and Bob’s able to fix him with a smile, saying, “C’mon, kid, let’s get back to the barn, huh?”

“I doubt we’ll make it that far, but we can try.”

Bob calls them in available, and sure enough, they’re met with a flurry of runs. Some of their patients are little put off by the paramedic with a black eye, but Brice doesn’t seem bothered. He just does his job, same as he always does, same as Bob. Thankfully, their runs are mostly inane, nothing too serious happening. It almost feels like someone’s looking out for them. Listening to the radio, Bob can hear that someone is looking out for Roy and Johnny, too. _They need a break. They deserve it._ Morton told them when they were last at Rampart.

“That girl Gage and DeSoto brought in this morning died,” he explained quietly, sadly, “She was so young-… I was really hoping she’d be able to fight through it, but it was just too much for her.”

“I’m sorry too hear that, doc. I know you did everything you could.”

“Yeah… I just wish it was enough.”

Bob knows how Johnny feels, but he can’t begin to imagine what Roy is experiencing. He would gladly take every run tonight if it means Roy and Johnny can rest and recover. As he and Brice head back to 16s sometime in the middle of the night, Bob can see his partner’s head lolling, a melancholy look on his face he thinks no one can see.

“Hey, Brice?” Bob asks before he can stop himself, “What’s one thing you’ve always wanted to do?”

“What?”

“What’s one thing you’ve always wanted to do? Like I’ve always wanted to go to the mountains to see the leaves change in the fall, and I wanna go to the desert in the spring to see all the flowers bloom. What about you?”

“I don’t-… I don’t really know,” Brice replies, “I suppose I did it already. For the longest time, all I wanted to do was to leave home, so I did… and then I wanted to become a paramedic, so I did that, too. I can’t think of anything else I want that badly.”

“Well, lemme know when ya do think of it.”

“Why?”

“Just curious, I guess.”

_Because I’d like to do whatever it is with you._ He eases the squad into its spot, both of them quietly going into the dorm to sleep as long as they can. Perhaps in the morning, he’d invite the boy to breakfast or the beach, something easy and relaxing. For now… For now, they need sleep. Bob hopes it will come easy to both of them.

 


	23. Is It Better to Burn Out or to Fade Away?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: strong language and some use of slurs (period-typical), OC death, discussions of death
> 
> oh look this one is on time today :D

It’s a day like any other, and so he does what he would do every other day. His shift starts at eight, so he wakes up at six to go for his morning run. There’s a good route he follows that travels along main roads so he feels safe. He follows the same routine: use the toilet, brush his teeth, chug a glass of water, and get dressed. The sweatpants and t-shirt are old and comfortable, as are his sneakers though they may need to be replaced soon. Maybe with the next paycheck, but they aren’t quite falling apart yet so it can wait.

He heads out of his apartment and starts jogging down the road. There are a few cars out but many. It’s the usual amount, with people heading to work or to school or back home. They’re white noise under his running, regular and calming. A horn blows behind him, but he ignores it as he ignores so many others. People are just impatient to get where they’re going, and they think laying on their horn is the best way to move faster.

He’s only briefly aware of the car hitting him from behind before the world goes dark.

xXxXx

Brice is in the middle of making himself breakfast when he feels a sudden pit in his stomach, but he shrugs it off, not knowing why it’s there. He simply attributes it to hunger. After all, he didn’t eat much yesterday, having been unusually tired and sleeping most of the day. It must simply be his stomach reminding him of that fact. _Some food will help._ It doesn’t, but he continues to try and ignore it. He doesn’t believe in signs or the supernatural, so his discomfort can be nothing but simple discomfort.

At 16s, he dodges Weiss to head into the locker room. Brice had initially liked Weiss, and he’d thought Weiss liked him, however, he’d been proven wrong as usual. Just like so many others, Weiss turned on him, though this time Brice has the comfort of knowing the rest of the crew won’t follow him. The only one being cruel is Weiss and only when no one else is around. Sauvageau is in the locker room now, so Brice is safe.

“Hey, Brice,” Bellingham greets him, “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“I dunno… Just-… Seemed like ya needed to be asked, is all.”

He doesn’t have a reply for that. _I don’t believe in signs._ Bellingham must simply have thought Brice looks tired. Again, Brice shrugs it off, chalks it up to Bellingham’s protectiveness, his tendency to hover over Brice like a mother hen. It’s nice, since no one has ever done it before, has ever cared that much about him. He’s of half a mind to tell Bellingham about Weiss, but if he never tattled on 45s, he won’t tattle on Weiss either. His time will come soon enough.

They’re spared an uncomfortable silence by being sent out on a run. Brice drives them to an apartment block for a call of a woman going into labor, exhilaration coursing through him. These are some of his favorite runs, and he knows they’re some of Bellingham’s, too.

“Tell me, Bellingham,” Brice asks, “whose turn is it to deliver the baby this time?”

“Whosever turn we want it to be, I guess.”

“Bellingham-“

“I know, I know… Lemme think… umm… I think it’s my turn, kid. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. That’s why we keep track of turns, to keep it fair… and besides, even though I enjoy it, I know you enjoy it more,” Brice tells him, pulling up to the apartments.

He finally gets a smile out of Bellingham with that, and it makes him feel good. It’s a small complex, only a couple buildings of five stories. A panicked young black man meets them in the entryway of the building, saying, “Oh my God, you hafta hurry! Her water broke and she’s gotta get to the hospital to have the baby!”

“Alright, sir, just calm down and take us to your apartment. We’ll take care of her…”

The soon-to-be father leads them to the third floor, shakily opening the door. The young woman is sitting on the couch, looking ready to pop. _And I suppose she is._ Bellingham eases her to the floor and gets her in position to check her dilation.

“I’d really appreciate just headin’ to the hospital,” she says, “Me and my husband sorta promised I’d have the baby in a hospital. I’m not really due for a couple weeks.”

Bellingham replies, “Well, miss, your baby has other ideas. You’re havin’ this baby right here.”

“Here? But-“

“Right here. Just listen carefully to what I tell ya, okay? I promise everything’s gonna be just fine.”

She opens her mouth to protest but gives a loud moan instead, clearly in pain. Brice quickly calls into Rampart with all the basics and then moves to help Bellingham. He remembers when he witnessed his first birth. That was the only time during his training that he really considered dropping out, certain he would never be able to deal with all the sights and smells, but now he couldn’t care less. He’s just excited to bring a new life into the world.

All in all, it’s a quick birth. Bellingham eases her through it, giving her clear instructions and telling her what was going on. Brice does the same, assuring her everything is okay.

“Okay now, Lyn, you’re doin’ great,” Bellingham tells her calmly, “Just one more big push, okay? One more push… Just take a deep breath and bear down…”

She does, giving a loud yell as does so, and like a scene in a movie, it’s shortly followed by the earnest crying of a newborn. Brice smiles in spite of himself, one of the few times he allows a genuine smile on his face. His partner grins too, cleaning off the baby as best he can after cutting the cord.

“Here ya go, Lyn… You and your husband have a beautiful baby girl, and she has a set of lungs on her.”

“A-A girl? Oh, that’s wonderful! Dan, you hear that?”

“Yeah, baby, I heard.”

The young man grins softly at his wife and baby, and it warms something deep in Brice’s chest. _They’re so happy. It’s beautiful._ The ambulance arrives not long after, and they load up mother and baby, Bellingham climbing in to ride with them.

“Can’t I ride in with them?” the husband asks.

“I’m afraid not, but you can follow in your own car,” Brice says, “They’re going to be just fine with Bellingham. He’s the best we have. Just be sure to follow all traffic laws. We’re taking her to Rampart.”

Brice loads up all the equipment and gets into the squad, making his way up to Rampart Hospital. He still smiles. His earlier foul mood and discomfort are completely forgotten, warmth traveling from his chest out into his limbs. _This was a good start to the day… the very best._ Bellingham is waiting for him at the bay station, chatting with Early, the doctor smiling as always.

“Hello there, Brice,” Early says, “I heard you’ve already had an exciting morning.”

“Nothing quite as exciting as birthing a baby. It’s a nice start to the shift.”

“Sure is,” Bellingham agrees, “Y’know, I was in a shit mood this morning, but now I feel pretty good. Great, in fact. Just feels good, especially with an easy birth and a healthy baby.”

They chat for another minute or so before another paramedic walks up, Fuentes from 99s, with a hard expression on his face. The discomfort rolls in Brice’s stomach again.

“Hey, fellas, how are ya?” he greets them.

“Better than you, it seems like,” Bellingham replies.

“Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“About Dorset from 45s?”

Brice and Bellingham share a look, and Fuentes explains, “He got hit by a car while he was running this morning. Horner and Saito from our C-shift were the ones called to the scene… said he was DOA, but they tried for him… They really tried for him, but that car fucked him up good.”

The warmth Brice had felt is immediately drowned in cold, like ice water dumped over his head. Dorset was a good man, a good paramedic, and though Brice wouldn’t necessarily say the man liked him, he was kind to him when few were. His chest tightens painfully. He schools his face into a mask of calm, trying not to reveal his emotions, trying not to appear weak.

“That-… That’s a shame,” Brice says quietly, “I knew Dorset well. I worked with him on many occasions, and-and worked well with him.”

“Yeah, yeah… he’s a good guy… well, he was a good guy,” Fuentes agrees.

He and Bellingham speak with each other, but Brice can’t hear over the rushing in his ears. This isn’t like when Crawford left. He’s still alive, after all, for Brice to see whenever he wants. This isn’t like when Captain Starrett died. Brice had only worked with him three times, so he didn’t know him well enough to truly grieve his loss. He’s been lucky until now, he supposes. He remembers Stoker at the funeral for Starrett, remembers every time he’s seen someone grieve a hard loss of someone close to them. He almost doesn’t feel like he should be allowed to mourn Dorset because they weren’t close, but he wants to. _Actually, I don’t want to, but I suppose I will if I want to or not._

“Craig?”

The use of his given name drags him back to reality. He looks to Bellingham, blinking, and the big man asks, “You okay, kid? Ya kinda dazed out on me there.”

“I’m fine,” Brice lies, perhaps too quickly, “I’ll be fine.”

“You are or you will be?”

He feels bad lying to his partner like this, but it’s easier. He simply says, “I’m fine,” and heads out to the squad.

xXxXx

It’s a startling change in Brice, to see the boy go from cheerful to almost robotic just like that. _How he used to be…_ Bob is sad to hear about Dorset, too. He’d never really worked with him, but they’d been on runs together, and Dorset had certainly seemed like a nice guy. He was in the paramedic class before Brice’s, was a young man. Bob sighs heavily and trails after Brice. The boy is already behind the wheel, knuckles white, face a careful mask to hide all emotion.

“You sure you’re alright, pal?” Bob asks him, “It’s okay to not be okay, y’know. It’s okay to be sad-“

Brice snaps, “I said I’m fine,” and puts the squad in gear. _That’s new. He’s never snapped at me._ Leaning back in his seat, Bob decides it’s better to say nothing and keep from further antagonizing the boy. It’s best to let him work out his emotions on his own, which is good, because Brice seems determined to be on his own, retreating to the dorm when they return.

“What’s his problem?” Weiss asks.

“Dorset from 45s died this morning, hit by a car. Brice knew him pretty well.”

Weiss just mumbles, “Oh,” and returns to the paper. Bob feels himself bristle. Something about Weiss has had him on edge for a couple weeks now, but he can’t quite put his finger on why. He lets it go for the time being, decides to call Roy DeSoto at 51s.

“ _What is it, Bob?_ ”

“Wanted to make sure ya heard about Dorset at 45s,” Bob says, explains what happened.

Roy swears, says, “ _That’s a shame. He’s a nice guy. Who went to the scene?_ ”

“99s. We ran into Fuentes at Rampart and he said Horner and Saito were there.”

“ _Damn shame… I think Dorset and Saito were in the same paramedic class. That had to be hard on him._ ”

“It’s never easy when it’s one of our own. I’ve learned that.”

“ _Yeah, me too._ ”

Roy has to hang up for a run on their end, and Bob hopes they’ll have one soon. They’re sure to be a little busier with 45s out of the mix, and sure enough, 16s gets a run shortly after. They get a string of runs that keeps them nice and busy, busy enough that Bob can almost forget Brice’s poor mood and reverted behavior. He’s like he was when they were first partnered up, quiet and somber and closed-off. It hurts to think about, but he has to. He has to help his partner.

“Brice?”

“Hmm?”

“It’s-… You remember we had a talk a while back about, uh, about talkin’ stuff out?”

“I recall it,” Brice says stiffly, “What about it?”

“We said we would talk about things that were upsetting us, that we’d get the other one to talk even if it makes ya mad. So, even if I don’t really wanna piss you off, I think you need to talk to me.”

“We agreed that discussion should take place if one of us was distracted. I’m not distracted.”

“Not right now you’re not… but ya might be later. It’s only a matter of time before that box of yours overflows and it becomes a distraction, so please, kid, talk to me,” Bob says.

“There isn’t much to say, Bellingham. Dorset was-… I knew him well, and now he’s dead.”

“And you’re sad about it.”

“I’m not sad-“

“You’re allowed to be sad. You’re allowed to hurt and to mourn and to have feelings. You’re human. No one’s gonna judge you for havin’ feelings.”

“They will. They always have, always do.”

“Well, I’m not gonna judge ya, and I’m the one who really matters. I want ya to feel ya can be open with me, at least, like ya have in the past. You can talk to me, pal,” Bob tells him, “about anything.”

Brice says nothing, just sits stiffly in the driver’s sear, lips pursed. Bob sighs, but he decides not to push it for now. _He’ll talk to me when he’s ready._ Pushing Brice just makes him clam up harder, after all, and that won’t get them anywhere. Something still niggles in the back of Bob’s mind where Weiss is concerned, something about his attitude, but he brushes it off. He doesn’t need to concern himself with the lineman just now. After a few minutes, when they’re almost back to the station, Bob speaks again, “One more thing, and then I’m done. Just- I know how it feels to lose someone that- that ya weren’t super close with but ya know well enough to be upset they’re gone… if that makes any sense.”

“It makes sense, Bellingham.”

“It’s weird, ‘cause it’s not someone ya see all the time, but ya expect to see ‘em at any time: at a scene, at Rampart, subbin’ somewhere… so it’s just weird, is all. You’re sad, but ya don’t feel like ya should be-“

“I’d prefer not to talk about it now.”

His tone is firm, but his voice is shaking. _We’re gettin’ there._ Once the squad has been eased into its spot, Brice gets out and stalks into the dorm again. Cap watches from the office, asks Bob, “Everything okay with Brice?”

“We found out another paramedic died this morning.”

“Yeah, I heard about Dorset. Brice worked with him?”

“Few times, it seems… and we always saw him around ‘cause he was at 45s.”

“Real shame what happened to him,” Cap says, “Brice gonna be okay?”

“I think so, yeah. Just gonna take time, just like with everyone else. We’ve all been there, Cap.”

“You can say that again, Bob. Anyway, keep an eye on the kid.”

“Planned on it.”

Bob turns to follow Brice into the dorm, sees Weiss retreating into the kitchen, quietly follows him instead. He stops at the door, listening to Weiss and Sauvageau talk.

“…always thinkin’ there’s some kinda conspiracy,” Sauvageau says, “Just drop it already, man.”

“Oh, come on, Harry. You hafta see it, too! They’re always coddling Brice! It’s not fair!”

“Dude, I have no clue what you’re talkin’ about.”

“He always acts like he’s better than us, and they reward him for it! Cap’s always tellin’ him what a great job he does, and Bellingham’s always hoverin’ over him-“ Bob’s hackles rise, “-and now they’re protecting him through his little tantrum!”

“Tantrum? Jesus Christ, Jim, his friend died. He’s upset.”

Bob leaves before he does something he’ll regret, going to sit with Brice. _Do I really hover?_ He has become increasingly protective of Brice, his strange lovely boy, and he isn’t quite sure why. It might be because no one has protected the boy before and Bob wants to be the one to do it. It might be because he’s one of the few people in the department who actually likes Brice rather than just tolerating him and Bob wants to show him he cares. _He deserves to know someone cares._ It might be because Bob loves the boy in a way he can’t quite quantify. That’s not something Brice has to know right now, though.

Brice is sitting on his bunk, very still, not doing anything. Approaching slowly, Bob sits next to him. The boy’s eyes are red and wet behind his glasses.

“You’re right,” he says thickly.

“About what?”

“I’m sad. Dorset’s death affected me more than I would’ve expected. I’m-… I’m torn, as you said. I’m upset because I knew him and liked him and he’s gone… but I-I don’t feel I have any right to mourn him because I didn’t know him that well. I only worked with him a handful of times,” Brice explains, “but I can’t help but mourn him.”

“That’s okay. That’s normal. The confusion-… It’s normal, kid. I’ve been there.”

“But-…” he pauses, wets his lips, continues, “But it makes me afraid, too.”

_That took a lotta guts for him to admit._

“What are you afraid of?” Bob asks.

Brice opens his mouth to speak, but at that moment, the door bangs open, Weiss dragging in Sauvageau, saying, “See! What’d I tell you?”

“Wei- Dammit, Weiss, leave him alone!”

“No! I’m sick of everyone treating this retard like he’s better than us!”

“Weiss,” Bob warns through clenched teeth, “Get out before you regret what happens.”

“I won’t! I’m fuckin’ sick of it! I’ve worked hard to get where I am, and I’ve worked hard to try and move up, but I can’t when they’re handin’ out positions to fuckin’ halfwits ‘cause they feel sorry for ‘em!” Weiss shouts.

“Dude, just shut up,” Sauvageau tells him.

Weiss ignores him, keeps throwing his tantrum, “The department’s gone real downhill in the last few years, lettin’ in all kinds of trash like retards and faggots, and I won’t stand for it! Got this ‘lil fag in here cryin’ over some nigger he barely knew and-“

The tension in Bob’s body snaps, and he’s on his feet before he knows how, half-blinded by rage, blood pounding in his ears.

xXxXx

Brice ignores the abuse as best he can in his fragile state, knowing it’s the same he’s always heard. It’s just strange to hear the insults hurled like he’s not even there. _They usually prefer insulting me to my face._ He can feel the anger surging off Bellingham in waves. The big man’s whole body is tense, like he’s ready for a fight. He might be. Brice has never known him to fight, though, and that’s what is truly scary about this tension.

Weiss’s voice is loud in the small dorm and grates on Brice’s ears as the lineman throws his fit, and something itches under Brice’s skin. He blinks back tears. His hands are curled into fists. _He’s telling lies. He’s just spouting lies._ When he hears them so often, however, they begin to sound like the truth, and he really does begin to think he’s worthless. He doesn’t personally think being queer or being disabled in some way makes a person worthless, but he knows that’s the effect the words are supposed to have. It’s the effect they begin to have. Brice sucks in a shuddering breath.

“…Got this ‘lil fag in here cryin’ over some nigger he barely knew and-“

Like a spring uncoiling, Bellingham shoots to his feet, crossing the distance between them and Weiss in seconds. He snatches Weiss by the shirt and slams him hard against the wall, a thick arm pressed across his chest close to his throat. Brice lets out a shout, tries to go to Bellingham, is stopped by Sauvageau and Palmer. He struggles briefly, not wanting to get hurt.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay, Brice,” Sauvageau tells him quietly, “We’re not gonna hurt ya.”

“We don’t want you to get hurt, that’s all.”

“What? But what about Bob-“

“Oh, Bob’s gonna be fine,” Palmer says, “Just gonna put the fear of God into Weiss there… though he’s overdue for an ass-kickin’ in my opinion.”

Palmer’s smirk speaks of retaliation, teeth very white against his dark skin. Only then does Brice stop struggling. Bellingham’s face is very close to Weiss’s, but his angry growl can be heard from halfway across the room. There’s fear in Weiss’s pale face, which gives Brice a familiar and savage satisfaction.

“You fuckin’ piece of shit,” Bellingham growls, “I got family that fought against fuckers like you in World War II, and ancestors that fought against fuckers like you in the Civil War… and I’ll be damned if I’m not gonna fight against you now. So you say one more word and I will knock your teeth down your throat, make no mistake about that.”

Yes, the fear in Weiss’s face makes Brice feel good. Bellingham continues, “Now you listen and listen good, asshole… I don’t ever wanna hear you speak again unless it’s directly related to work. I don’t wanna hear about your family, your weekend, your dog, nothin’, and neither does anyone else. If I do hear you, we will all personally fuck you up, do you understand me?”

Weiss nods.

“Good… and if I ever hear words like the ones you just said come outta your mouth again, I’ll drop you on the spot,” Bellingham tells him dangerously, “Now get the fuck outta my sight.”

Brice has never seen Weiss move faster. The man scrambles out of the room, tripping over his own feet. A moment passes, and Palmer speaks up, “You shoulda hit him, Bob.”

“Probably, yeah.”

“Or even better, you coulda let me hit him.”

“There’s still time, Frank. People like him can’t keep their shitty opinions to themselves for long, so I imagine you’ll get your chance soon enough,” Bellingham smirks.

“Just remind me never to piss you off,” Sauvageau comments, “That was some scary shit, dude.”

Brice is still in shock: at Weiss’s slurs, at Bellingham’s threats of violence, the violent reaction… his own dark pleasure. It’s incredible. Bellingham speaks briefly with Palmer and Sauvageau before gently ushering them out and returning to Brice.

“You were going to hurt him,” Brice says quietly.

“I thought about it, yeah. I’m sorry, kid. I didn’t mean to scare ya, just-… I couldn’t let him talk like that anymore. I couldn’t let him keep spewin’ out that hateful shit.”

“You always say violence isn’t the answer.”

“Self-defense is another story and so is defending someone else. You’re worth defending, Craig.”

Brice blinks against the sudden onslaught of tears, ducking his head, heat blooming in his cheeks. Without thinking or really knowing why he does it, Brice steps forward and presses against Bellingham, leaning into his large frame. A quiet sigh leaves his lips when Bellingham wraps his arms around him. The big man is warm, his presence soothing, his embrace comforting. Brice allows himself to drown in it. He allows the grief and fear and worthlessness to fade momentarily. _I am most afraid of losing you… because I’m too close to you. I love you too much to live without you._ He nuzzles his face deeper against the broad shoulder, finally letting a few tears slip out.

xXxXx

It’s not often Chet gets invited out with the paramedics after a shift, but he’s grateful for it, especially today. He’s feeling a bit fragile. He’d actually been through the Academy with Dorset, and while he hadn’t worked with him properly very often, he’d seen him often enough. They’d had a bit of a bond, having both been in Vietnam before joining the department. _And to just get mowed down by a car…_ Dying in the line of duty is one thing. Chet would almost have been able to accept Dorset’s death if he were killed in the line of duty, but instead he was just run down by a car while jogging as he did every morning. It’s mundane.

At the diner, the three of them run into Brice and Bellingham, so they all decide to sit together. It’s not long before the four paramedics launch into a conversation Chet doesn’t quite understand. He just sips his coffee and thinks about how unfair Dorset’s death is. Every day, Dorset went into one of the most dangerous jobs in the country and went home unscathed.

“Kelly?”

He looks up. Brice has abandoned the paramedic conversation, now looking at Chet expectantly.

“I said your name three times,” Brice says, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, babe. You need somethin’?”

“I just wanted to ask if you wanted to talk.”

“I don’t think I’m gonna have any amazing insights for your conversation.”

“I didn’t mean I wanted you to talk about paramedic medicine,” Brice tells him, lowering his voice slightly, “I thought perhaps… perhaps you’d like to talk about Dorset.”

“Not much to talk about,” Chet shrugs, “He’s dead. Got nailed by a car jogging before work.”

“Did you know him well?”

“We went through the Academy together… got along ‘cause we were both in ‘Nam for a bit but not together. I dunno… he’s just a nice fella.”

“Yes… Yes, he was.”

The two of them sit together quietly, listening to the conversation between Johnny, Roy, and Bellingham. After a moment, Brice says, “You know, Kelly… I am very good at keeping secrets.”

Chet looks at him. Brice isn’t smirking or making a rare joke. He’s just looking at Chet with those pale eyes of his. _We’re about the same age._ The thought hits a little belatedly, but it’s true. He sometimes forgets because Brice seems so much older. As for his ability to keep secrets, Chet knows he can since he figured out Marco and Mike are in a relationship a couple years ago and never told anyone. _I can talk to Brice… weird as that is._

“It’s just-… it just seems unfair to me… how he died.”

“Unfair? How so?”

“In this line of work, I just kinda expect that when I hear another fireman died, he died in the line of duty… not in some kinda freak accident. Freak accidents are for other people. We’re the ones who take care of people after accidents,” Chet explains.

“I’ve seen plenty of firemen suffer freak accidents,” Brice replies, “Myself included.”

“Yeah, but they take place on the job, while we’re workin’ to help people, usually in a dangerous situation where an accident is likely to happen. Anything can happen at a brush fire or an accident scene when the wind shifts or something falls or there’s an explosion. It’s a risk we all signed up for, a risk we’re happy to take, and shit, I dunno, it- it just feels wrong for one of us to die when there’s no danger.”

“That happens too, though. When Captain Starrett died, several years ago, that wasn’t because of any danger. He died of a heart attack,” Brice says simply.

Chet sighs, rubs at his eyes, tells him, “I know, I know… but it’s still-… he was working. He wasn’t doing something so mundane as jogging.”

“So one day when you die, you’d prefer it not be mundane.”

“Hell yeah, Brice. I wanna go out in a blaze of glory… and hopefully pretty quick. I don’t wanna linger, that’s for goddamn sure. Just-… I don’t want it to be… mundane.”

He doesn’t know why he wants it that way. He has no family to receive a department payout, no one to mourn him but the department. In Vietnam, he sometimes hoped he’d simply get shot through the head. After Vietnam, he sometimes hoped he’d drink just a bit too much and not wake up. Now he just hopes when his time comes, it comes quick and spectacular.

“Hey, what are you two talkin’ about?” Johnny asks.

“The mysteries of the universe, babe. What else?” Chet says before Brice can speak.

“Shut up, Chet- look, I wanna ask ya about this…”

Chet is pulled back into the conversation, and he pulls Brice in with him. It’s easy to forget he actually likes Brice sometimes. For now, he wants to remember that he does.

“Y’know, we should all hang out sometime,” Chet says, smiling, “Like, all of us together. I think that could be a lotta fun.”

“I’m inclined to agree with ya, kid,” Bellingham replies.

The big man drapes an arm around Brice’s shoulders, grinning as usual, and Brice cracks a small smile. There’s a little something trying to catch Chet’s attention at the back of his mind, but he can’t quite put his finger on it, so he ignores it for the time being. It’s just nice to see Brice smile.


	24. Whatever Our Souls are Made Of (His and Mine are the Same)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: mild language, tooth-rottingly sweet

“You’re gonna be here for Thanksgiving this year, right, Bobby?”

There’s a bit of an edge to Easter’s voice, so Bob quickly tells her, “Yes, Terrie, I’ll be here for Thanksgiving. I’ll be here with bells on.”

“Good. Are ya bringin’ anyone? I thought ya mentioned bringin’ Brice.”

“Well, last week he said he would come, but he’s a ‘lil, uh, a ‘lil flighty sometimes. I mean, I don’t wanna push him. I don’t want him to be uncomfortable.”

“Oh no, none of us wants that,” Easter says, “Just- I wanna make sure I have enough for everyone. Hopefully he won’t back out this time.”

“I know… He doesn’t do it to be rude. He’s-… He doesn’t really like social situations and shit like that. He’s kinda weird about new people, is all.”

“I’m not tryin’ to say he does it to be rude. I just wanna meet him. Ya talk about him an awful lot… seems like he’s a big part of your life,” she comments.

“S’pose he is. I do spend three a days a week with him, twenty-four hours a day.”

“It’s more than that, I think. Bobby, he’s good for you.”

“Sis, it’s not like-“

“But you do love him. That much is clear. It’s clear to me.”

Bob ducks his head, his face flushed with heat. _She always could see right through me._ It’s not exactly a big deal. He knows he loves the boy, cares about him like he’s never cared about anyone else. It’s an easy enough thing to tell himself, to admit to himself when no one else is there, in the quiet of the night or when he’s driving or when they’re with a patient. It’s easy to tell himself he loves Brice, but it’s another thing to tell someone else, especially Brice. For now, telling himself is enough. Easter steps close, whispering, “You’re so happy, Bobby… Happy like I haven’t seen you in years.”

“I… I guess I am. He’s so great. He’s-… He’s a good kid.”

“What did I tell ya, Bobby? I told ya he’d come along someday… and here he is.”

There’s nothing he can think of to say, not when Easter knows the truth and can put it so eloquently. She simply tells him, “Try to get Brice to come for Thanksgiving,” and steps back, returning to her shopping list.

Thanksgiving is in two weeks and the grocery stores are already crammed full of people. Bob and Brice get at least one run a shift to a grocery for someone who slipped or fainted or got into a fight. (The fight was certainly memorable.) He suspects they’ll have more in the coming weeks, just as they do every year. _The holiday spirit just ain’t what it used to be._

Bob brings up the holiday during their next shift. Brice visibly stiffens.

“I-I don’t know, Bellingham. There are plenty of people looking to have the day off and-“

“You haven’t taken them up on it yet, so some part of you must wanna come,” Bob says, “Look, it’s nothin’ fancy, kid… and my sister especially wants to meet ya. Now, she makes the best dinner. She’s got turkey, stuffing, asparagus, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, homemade pies, the works.”

“I’m sure she’s a lovely woman and an excellent cook, but I’m not sure I would be a good addition.”

“Brice, I want you there. I think it’ll be a good time for everyone. You’ll like Easter and Frank and the kids… When’s the last time ya had a dinner like I just mentioned, huh?”

“What if I told you last year?”

“I’d call ya a liar.”

“The year before that?”

“A bad liar.”

Brice sighs, runs a hand through his hair, says, “I just don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not gonna be a burden. I want ya there,” Bob says.

“Why?”

The earnestness with which he asks the question makes Bob’s chest ache. _‘Cause you deserve someone who cares about ya… ‘cause you deserve to be cared for, deserve goodness and kindness and love-_

“Because I like ya and I want you there. That’s why. Isn’t that enough?”

A moment passes before Brice murmurs, “Yes… it’s enough,” and excuses himself to look over the drug box. It’s not something that needs to be done. Brice just checked it not thirty minutes ago, but Bob watches him anyway. He enjoys watching the boy concentrate on a task, the way his brow furrows and his lips purse and his eyes flit over the project. Brice is intense in all he does, and to Bob it’s downright endearing. The expression makes him look younger, more his age. It’s nice.

Bob likes seeing him like this, knows he’s played a part in helping him out of his shell. _We’ve been good for each other, very good._ He never wants this to end, but in his heart, he knows it will one day. Shaking the dark thought from his mind, he goes to sit by Brice on the floor. They’re quiet for a minute or so as Brice repacks the drug box, and once he’s done, he asks, “Do you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“Do you really mean it when you say you like me?”

His voice is quiet and meek, as if he’s unsure of the answer.

“Why would you think I was lyin’ to ya?”

“I- I don’t think you’re lying to me, _per se_ , just… I’m not used to it being true,” he says quietly, “I’m used to it being a-a little white lie.”

“Craig, you know I’d never lie to you.”

“I know that, but-“

“I’m not blamin’ ya for anything. I’m sure ya had a hard time of it in the past, but I’m not gonna lie to ya about something so important,” Bob says earnestly, “I just want ya to try and remember that.”

“I’ll try, Bob.”

“Good. That’s all I’m askin’. Now let’s double check these supplies…”

xXxXx

“Cora, do me a favor and tidy up the living room, would ya?” Easter calls out to her oldest, “Your Uncle Bobby is gonna be here any minute.”

“Why do I hafta tidy up for Uncle Bobby?”

“Because he’s bringing a friend with him and I wanna make a good impression.”

Cora leans in the doorway, smirking, “What kinda friend? A lady friend?”

“No, his friend from work. Now go tidy up. Tell Frankie to help you.”

She hears the boy groan from the kitchen and smirks. Cora is finishing college in a year now, and Frankie will be going next year. _A lot’s happening, that’s for sure._ Easter looks over her to-do list for the day, what order she needs to do everything in. It’s a lot to do, but she’s an old hand at Thanksgiving dinner. Christmas dinner requires a lot more work for almost two dozen more people including a load of kids and growing teenagers and – Thanksgiving is a little easier.

“Mom, can I ask you a question?”

“Cora, I thought I asked you to go tidy up out there.”

“Frankie’s on it… like ya also told me. I just wanna ask a question about Uncle Bobby,” she says, twirling a strand of thick brown hair around her finger, “and, like, I just want you to be cool ‘cause sometimes ya start freakin’ out before-“

“Cora. What’s your question, sweetie?”

“Mom… is-? Is Uncle Bobby-? Umm… is Uncle Bobby gay?”

_Guess I knew it was comin’ sooner or later._ Sighing quietly, Easter sets down her list and looks at her daughter. She’s grown into such a lovely young woman: thickset with a round face and deep blue eyes and lots of brown hair. Even better, she’s kind and patient and hard-working. _Shoulda named her after Bobby._ Easter asks a question of her own, “What makes you think so?”

“Well, he’s not married,” Cora replies, “He doesn’t seem like he ever wants to get married. He’s never brought any women over… and he talks about this Brice guy an awful lot. I mean, I have a couple friends at school who are gay, and it seems like they’re kinda the same way.”

“The only answer I can really give is that- well… He’s told me he’s not gay, and I believe him… but he also says he isn’t straight, and I believe him there, too. To tell the truth, I don’t think he’s anything.”

“Not anything?”

“Yeah, why not? If people can be all kinds of things, why can’t some be nothing?”

Cora murmurs an agreement and returns to the living room, back to bickering with her brother. Easter gives a little sigh of relief, thankful she told the truth, however strange the truth is. It’s not something she really understands, but she tries because she loves her brother. She accepts it. There’s very little her brother could do to make her not love him anymore, and being queer doesn’t even come close to being on such a list. Smiling at her arguing children, Easter returns to her prep work. There’s a lot to do, after all.

Bobby and his friend Brice arrive in the early afternoon. Brice seems almost a boy to Easter, not much older than her children: a mop of brown hair and pale eyes behind large spectacles.

“Hello, Mrs. Jespersen,” he says a bit stiffly, “I’m Craig Brice, Bellingham’s partner.”

The simple word warms Easter’s heart, and she smiles, greeting him, “And hello to you too, Craig. I’m Easter, Bobby’s sister, but everyone usually calls me Terrie. This is my husband, Frank… our daughter, Cora… and our son, Frankie. Oh, we’re so delighted to have you. I’ve been wantin’ to meet you for a while now.”

“I appreciate that, Mrs. Jespersen-“

“Uh-uh. None of that here. We’re all friends here. At least call me Easter. Now, the two of you c’mon in and have a seat in the living room. The game’s partway through, but it sounds like it’s been good.”

“Couldn’t I be of assistance in the kitchen?” Brice offers.

“You could, but since you’re our guest, you’re not doing any work.”

“But-“

“No buts. Bobby, why don’t ya keep him company?” Easter suggests.

“You’ll do anything to keep me from botherin’ you in the kitchen, huh?”

“Almost. Now have a seat…”

She’s used to Bobby helping, but having spent many holidays without him, she can manage. Cora and Frankie might get roped into the work, though. In the living room, Brice sits stiffly beside Bobby, clearly unable to relax. Easter feels a pang of guilt before realizing it’s probably just his way. Bobby, of course, looks as comfortable as ever, lounging back on the couch. If Brice were to lean back, he would be right on Bobby’s outstretched arm. It’s certainly a lovely scene. Warmth flutters in Easter’s chest. She’s secretly pleased when Frankie goes to ride his bike with his friends and when Cora disappears into her room to do some reading for school and when Frank dashes out to visit a friend at the veterans’ hospital.

With time to kill while some things cook, Easter peers out into the living room. Brice has finally relaxed a bit, and Bobby says, “C’mon, kid, you’re alright. My family isn’t that scary, are they?”

“No, they’re quite pleasant. It’s just-… I’m not used to it.”

“I know… but ya better get used to it. Ya got people around now that care about ya, remember?”

“I remember.”

Brice wears a small smile, so faint that it can hardly be called a smile, but Easter somehow knows the boy might as well be grinning, his cheeks tinted pink. Bobby hasn’t really told her all that much about Brice, though she suspects it’s because he doesn’t really know all that much about Brice himself. The majority of what he’s said revolves around Brice being a sad and lonely boy, one whose family never cared for him and who never had a friend in his life until he came to LA six years ago. Easter wants to take him up in her arms and love him like a mother should. She would do it now if she didn’t think he’d resent it.

After a moment of fidgeting, Brice gets up to look around the room, and Easter steps in, smiling, asks, “Are you enjoying yourself, Craig? Or do you prefer Brice?”

“I would prefer Brice, thank you… and I am enjoying myself very much. You have a lovely home,” he says, “and a lovely family.”

“I like to think so. Thanks, Brice.”

He nods politely, hands carefully placed behind his back, makes his way to the mantelpiece. Bobby follows him. She watches as he takes a moment to look at every photo, but he takes a longer moment at one of them. _Oh, but the boy isn’t stupid… and he’s far from unobservant._

“That’s one of my favorite photos,” Easter tells him, joining them, “It’s the last one I have of all my children.”

“I recognize Cora and Frankie… but not this older girl.”

“That’s my first daughter, Adela. She’s named after our mother, who was just Della, but that’s what we called her, too. She was a good girl… a very good girl, my little Della.”

“May I ask what happened?” Brice whispers.

“She died,” Easter says simply, “Poor Della was always pretty sickly, and when she was fifteen, she got sick and never got better. It was a combination of pneumonia and influenza that did it.”

“I’m very sorry, Easter.”

“Thank you. Most times, I feel alright. I do still get sad sometimes, but mostly I’ve learned to handle it. It’s not easy… just easier to deal with, if that makes sense.”

“It does. I understand.”

Bobby speaks up, “She’d be twenty-six this year. Still can’t believe it sometimes myself.”

The three of them fall silent for a moment before Easter says, “Why don’t the two of you come help me in the kitchen? I could always use a couple pairs of hands.”

Brice damn near lights up, almost beating her to the kitchen. He’s a good assistant and Easter tells him so, enjoying the self-conscious blush in his face.

“You’re a nice kid, Brice. Now, I really get why Bobby talks about ya all the time.”

The pale eyes go wide, and he turns, sputters, “Belling-Bellingham? Do you-? Do you really-?”

“Don’t be so surprised. You’re my partner. Why shouldn’t I talk about ya?”

“Well. What do you say about me?”

“Only good things, kid. Right, Terrie?”

“Your reputation is quite safe,” she agrees, “He only tells me the best things. If ya want, I can talk about Bobby to even it out.”

“I imagine you have some very interesting stories.”

Easter pulls out the best tales she has regarding her baby brother, like the time he broke his leg falling off the roof and how he saved every little baby bird he could find and how he used to out-read every other kid at school to the point where teachers took his books away so he’d pay attention.

“Mostly all he did was just save little birds and get himself into trouble,” she explains, “Once fought a boy almost twice his age when the ‘lil jerk taunted me and tried to grab me. Thankfully, Bobby was always big for his age, so he gave that kid a run for his money.”

“Bellingham, that doesn’t seem like you, starting a fight,” Brice says, but there’s mischievous sort of twinkle in his eyes that says he knows otherwise.

“I usually don’t… but sometimes there’s somethin’ worth fightin’ for… or someone.”

That fluttering warmth is back. _They’re happy._ Unable to help herself, Easter tells them, “Y’know… I’m happy for you… for both of you. You’re good for each other.”

“Sis, c’mon, you know it’s not-“

“I think, Bobby, that I know you well enough to know what this relationship is and isn’t. To be honest, it doesn’t matter to me. I’m simply happy to see you two so happy.”

“Y’know, I actually think you are, Terrie. I know you are,” Bobby smiles.

“As you should. And as for you, Brice… I want ya to know that I consider ya part of the family. Anytime, anything you need, just let us know. We’re always here to help.”

“Thank you, Mrs- umm, Easter. I appreciate it. You don’t know how much.”

“I’m glad. Now then… help me snap these beans, will ya?”

xXxXx

Brice never thought he would ever enjoy something so mundane as a family dinner and snapping beans, but here he is, enjoying it as much as he’d ever enjoyed anything. Bellingham and his older sister are the most pleasant people he could spend time with (aside from Ivy and Rosie, of course). The whole family is pleasant. _I suppose I should’ve known that._ Easter chases them out of the kitchen when her husband returns, and Brice makes a mental list of all the Jespersens.

Easter was the first to greet him, giving him a warm hug. She looks a lot like Bellingham: thick-built, brown hair with grey at the temples, eyes as warm and deep blue as the ocean. Her personality is wonderful, too. Whatever miseries she’s experienced in her life hardly seem to have made a dent at all, exactly the opposite of Brice. Perhaps he should ask her how she manages it.

Her husband, Frank Jespersen, is a kind enough man. His appearance makes him seem cold, more blond and pale and angular, but his personality is warm. He served in Korea, and like many others who did so, he seems a bit haunted by the war and its effects on his comrades. There is only one photo of him in uniform. It’s of his return, him hugging his wife and young child. _A child who no longer lives._ The juxtaposition is interesting. He gets on well with Brice, though, maybe because they both are a bit haunted by their respective pasts.

The children are wonderful, also. Cora looks just like her mother and has the same personality, and she’s wildly intelligent. She spends half an hour telling Brice about her degree work in civil engineering at Loyola Marymount, all the while wearing a grin like Bellingham’s. The challenge of being in such a program and constantly being talked down to by her male colleagues only appears to fuel her motivation, something Brice can relate to. Frankie seems to be following in her footsteps with his desire to join the same field. His coloring favors his father slightly but sits in the middle, with dark hair bordering on brown and eyes like his sister’s. _They’re a lovely family._

Brice thinks briefly of his own family: a cold and unflattering mash of features where none of them seemed to be part of the same family. Dinners always felt forced and unpleasant, whether at home or (rarely) in public. Overall, his family was pretty horrible, so much so that this dinner with Bellingham’s family is almost surreal in how much he enjoys it. He even smiles.

“What about your family, Brice?” Cora asks.

“What about them?”

“I dunno… why aren’t ya spending the holiday with them? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m happy you’re here, but-… guess I just wanna know more about ya.”

“My family-… They’re in Florida, my parents and my brother and my sister. I-umm… We don’t talk,” he says calmly, “We haven’t since I left to come here. It’s been… It’s been very nice.”

A silence falls over the table, none of them apparently able to decide if they should be happy or sad, so Brice continues, “I’m happy, though. I’ve managed to find my own family here in Los Angeles, and it is far superior to the one I was born into.”

“Then we’re happy for you, sweetie,” Easter says, “and I hope you’ll consider yourself a part of our family, too. I dunno what’s happened in your past, but here you will always have someone in your corner.”

“Especially me,” Bellingham chimes in, “I’ll always look out for ya, kid.”

When Brice replies, “I know,” he’s surprised to realize he means it. The rest of dinner is a bit rowdier, filled with joking and laughter and hilarious stories that nearly have Brice laughing out loud. Bellingham’s laughter sticks out, is loud and raucous and belly-deep. He’s got spots of food on his shirt and keeps talking with his mouth full and sometimes drops food into his lap only to pick it up with his fingers and eat it. They used to call him ‘The Animal,’ and Brice had been worried initially. He’d pictured a total slob with a filthy uniform and a dirty face. He got Bellingham, who wasn’t tidy but neither was he disgusting. _This behavior would have had me cringing in the past._

Now he loves it. He loves Bellingham’s kindness and gentleness and absolute joy in his work. He loves the big man’s soft voice and loud laughter and his half-untucked shirt with faded stains and how he’ll only pull up one suspender on his bunkers when they’re at the station and how he’s always the first to comfort someone at a scene and how he talks all about the books he likes and- Brice realizes belatedly it’s because he loves Bellingham.

_Fascinating._ He loves him as much or perhaps more than he loves Ivy… or maybe in a different way. He doesn’t feel the way Ivy once described to him. There’s no fluttering or rushing blood or interested nether regions. Brice simply feels warm and comfortable and cared for, and it’s so alien he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to define it except to say that he loves him. It’s a startling revelation but a good one.

Brice is plied with three kinds of pie and ends up taking up a small slice of each. Dessert is less raucous but no less enjoyable. Brice and Bellingham are asked to share some of their more interesting paramedic stories, and they certainly have some whoppers, one of which almost makes Cora spit out her pie.

“God, you guys must see some crazy shit,” Cora says, “and some gross shit.”

“Ya got that right,” Bellingham agrees, “Jesus, I’m not even sure what I can tell ya. I don’t wanna get too nasty but-… I dunno, you got a good one, Brice?”

“I did once treat a drug addict whose arm was rotting.”

“Really? Sounds disgusting.”

“It was. He probably got some form of flesh eating bacteria from using dirty needles. It’s one of the worst things I’ve ever smelled in my life. He could’ve lost his arm.”

“Ugh, that’s awful. I could never be a paramedic. I’d throw up all the time,” Cora says.

Frankie agrees, “Same. Even a papercut gets me queasy. I almost passed out last year during a football game when Jimmy Ramirez broke his leg.”

“Ya threw up, though.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I heard the bone snap, Cora! It was awful!”

It’s late when Brice and Bellingham leave the Jespersons’, all of them giving Brice a hug he doesn’t back away from, that he even enjoys. Bellingham has changed him that way, in many ways. Brice smiles faintly in the passenger seat of Bellingham’s truck. There’s something niggling at the back of his mind, though.

“Bob, may I ask you something?”

“Of course, kid. Anything.”

“What was it your sister meant when she said she knew what our relationship is and isn’t?”

“Just that. Out of all my siblings, she’s the one I’m closest to, and she’s always been real supportive of me,” he replies, “She, uh, she accepts me, I guess.”

“Are you gay?”

If it were anyone else, Brice wouldn’t have asked. He would have been too terrified of being berated or beaten up. Bellingham will simply answer him.

“No… no, not really… but I reckon I’m not exactly straight, either. Easter likes to say that I’m nothin’.”

“Nothing? Why nothing?”

“Just- I guess I’m not interested in relationships and all that. Never have been,” Bellingham says simply, “Never wanted to-to date or get married or have kids. Reckon everyone kinda thought I was gay at first, but I’m not interested in guys, either. Some people are straight, some are gay, some are in between, some are everything... Why can’t I be nothin’?”

“Do you- umm… Do you think there are other people who are nothing?”

“There hafta be. Can’t only be one of me, after all. What about you?”

“I-… I think I’m nothing, too,” he says, voice thicker than he wants it to be.

Bellingham notices, tells him, “Hey, you’re alright. C’mon, we’ll go to my place and we can talk it out, okay? We don’t have to work tomorrow, so ya can stay as long as ya like. Alright?”

He agrees. The trip to Bellingham’s apartment is short, something for which Brice is grateful. There’s a stormy mix of emotions roiling in his chest, tightness in his throat, burning in his eyes. He has so many questions and he needs the answers more than anything. Bellingham barely closes the apartment door behind them when Brice closes in on him, asking hurriedly, “Is it true? What you said? You really feel that way? You’re really uninterested in-“

“Hey, calm down,” Bellingham tells him, gently gripping his shoulders, “Of course it’s true. I’ve always said I’d never lie to ya, right?”

“Yes, but-“

“No buts. Why’s it such a big deal to ya-“

“Because I’ve felt so broken and lonely for so long because I thought I was alone,” Brice tells him, voice thick and frantic, “Even Ivy doesn’t really understand what it’s like. She tries, she really does, but she’s in love so she can’t. It seemed- It seemed like no one else would but-… but you do. You understand. You’re like me. There’s someone- someone else like me-“

Brice lets his tears fall, allows himself a few quiet sobs. Strong arms envelop him, a big hand gently cradling the back of his head. He buries his face in the broad shoulder in front of him and wraps his own arms around his partner. Bellingham is warm and comforting and gentle, his cheek pillowed against Brice’s hair. His voice is soft and low in Brice’s ear, rumbling in his chest, murmuring, “Hush now, Craig… you’re okay… I’m here for ya. Hey, let’s sit down, kid. C’mon…”

They sit on the couch, and Brice practically molds himself to Bellingham’s side, desperate for the intimacy. Bellingham holds him there, is silent for a long moment, finally explains in a quiet voice, “I used to feel the same way… hell, I still do sometimes. S’pose it’s only natural to feel broken when you’re not like everyone else. Reckon lots of queer people feel the same way… Ya feel like you’re the only person like you in the whole universe even though ya know ya can’t be… but ya feel like you’ll be alone forever, and even if ya don’t wanna get married and have kids, alone isn’t what ya want, either. It-… It’s nice to finally know for sure someone else is the same way… someone I’m close to, someone I can talk to…”

Looking up, Brice sees tears rolling down Bellingham’s face. _I don’t think I’ve ever seen him cry._ The sight of the big man crying when he’s usually so happy is so unsettling to Brice he sits up and brings his hands to Bellingham’s cheeks, wanting to wipe the tears away. That brings a brief smirk to Bellingham’s face. Brice then butts his forehead against Bellingham’s, near his temple, his hands still on Bellingham’s cheeks. The position is an intimate one, too intimate for friends, and Brice knows he should feel differently than he does, should feel shame or embarrassment or arousal… but he only feels calmness like he’s never known before. The roiling sea of emotions subsides until it’s a peaceful lake, only one emotion now seeking his attention.

“Bob,” he breathes, “I love you.”

xXxXx

It’s strange to hear those words spoken that way. He has only ever heard them spoken endearingly by his family or with laughter by his friends or frantically by a patient. He’s never heard them sweetly or tenderly, and he’s always expected to run if he did. To hear them so earnestly now from the boy he so cares for brings more tears to Bob’s eyes. He tightens his arm around Brice, holding him close, still reveling in his presence and closeness. _My dear, sweet boy…_ Turning his head slightly, Bob whispers, “And I love you, Craig,” and brushes his lips over Brice’s forehead.

He doesn’t know what they have here between them. It’s not strictly platonic or strictly romantic but seems to be somewhere in the middle. Whatever it is, it’s nothing they have to define tonight. They’ll have plenty of time for that later. For now, Bob is just thankful whatever it is exists.

“I want to stay here tonight… if I could,” Brice says quietly, “Just like this.”

“That’s fine with me, kid… but I’d prefer to sleep in my own bed. I’m gettin’ too old to sleep on the couch. That okay with you?”

“Yes, that’s fine.”

They both change into some sweatpants and t-shirt. Bob gets into his bed first, finding his comfortable spot and settling in. Brice patiently waits for a quiet, “C’mere, Craig,” before joining him, curling up against his chest. If this were anyone else, Bob would have abandoned ship long ago, but something feels right with Brice. Bob has never believed in soulmates, at least not for himself. _But I got one… little different than everyone else’s, but I got one._ Peace washes over him with gentle waves as he pulls Brice close, weaves his thick fingers through the soft brown hair. Brice gives a soft, contented sigh. Bob smiles. _I got one._


	25. Here Comes the Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: attempted suicide, swearing
> 
> This is actually a cheerful chapter, I promise.

“A baseball game? Bellingham, what-?”

“What? I thought it might be fun.”

Bellingham’s expression is easygoing and unconcerned. Brice knows his own is anything but as he incredulously spits out, “Fun?”

“Yeah, fun,” he shrugs, snagging a doughnut out of the box, “It’s a friendly ‘lil tournament put together by some of the guys in the department. Just for braggin’ rights.”

“And you said our- our whole shift would play?”

“Yeah, the other guys love the idea. We were workin’ the last two, but now that we’re off-“

“Bellingham, I can’t play,” Brice blurts out.

“Okay, okay, if ya got other plans that day, it’s fine, but I was hopin’ we could-“

“It’s not that, it’s-… I can’t play baseball. I don’t know how.”

Bellingham stops mid-bite, crumbs dropping from his lips onto his shirt, and he blinks at Brice. Anticipating the question, Brice tells him, “I was the weird kid, the outcast, and my parents didn’t care about me. Exactly where was I supposed to learn to play baseball?”

“In gym class?”

“Do you really think the other children played fair with me in class?”

Bellingham makes an expression of agreement and shoves the rest of the doughnut into his mouth with a couple noisy bites, swallows audibly, says, “I still think you should at least come out even if ya don’t play, Brice. It’s gonna be a fun time.”

“You keep saying it’s going to be fun. I think you’re misusing the word.”

The look Bellingham gives him is long-suffering, an all too familiar expression, but Brice knows the look comes from a place of love. In any case, Brice plans on letting his partner stew for a bit. He likes baseball well enough, has no problem watching it, and he understands the mechanics of the sport. Brice knows how baseball is played; he just can’t play it himself. The other guys in the department are probably pretty good but not amazing, or else they’d be playing baseball instead of being firemen. _Still, I’m not going to embarrass myself._ He can watch, maybe even keep score.

Brice goes to stand in the bay, the doors thrown wide open to allow in fresh spring air. A warm comfortable breeze blows through, gently ruffling his hair. It’s nice. He allows himself a small smile at the sounds of his shiftmates chattering out back, all arguing good-naturedly about the game and who would play what position.

“ _Station 16, report of an unconscious man, possible suicide attempt…_ ”

_That puts a damper on the mood._ Brice feels his anxiety levels hitch up as he and Bellingham lead the way to the scene. These kinds of runs are always draining, mentally and emotionally, with family members screaming and crying and everyone’s emotions running high. He starts building his walls, preparing himself to deal with the upcoming storm. When they arrive, however, there’s no one outside. _Odd…_ Usually there would be one or more distraught family members out on the lawn awaiting help, but there’s no one. Bellingham comments on that, and Brice speculates, “Perhaps the man lives alone and called in before he passed out.”

“Why would he call us if he was tryin’ to kill himself, though?”

“Perhaps he didn’t intend to kill himself… or perhaps he thought better of it and called to save himself.”

Bellingham mutters, “Maybe,” and parks the squad, both hurrying to grab what they need, their shiftmates not far away. Brice is first to the door, knocking and calling, “Hello? Fire department!” and waiting for a response. A moment passes before a woman answers, “There ya are. C’mon in, fellas. Andy’s in the garage.”

“Ma’am, we heard this may be a suicide attempt?” Brice asks.

“That’s why I called. He said he was gonna go in the garage and turn on the car to get nearly unconscious and then somehow set himself on fire. Only reason it took so long to call was because he pulled the phone line and I had to fix it.”

“So-… So he wants to pass out from carbon monoxide poisoning and then set himself on fire?”

“I know. I told him it wouldn’t work, but he didn’t listen. I do think he doused himself with some lighter fluid or something, so please be careful,” she says.

The garage is easy enough to break into with a jimmy, Brice going in with Bellingham and Sauvageau. Exhaust is thick in the air, making Brice cough almost as soon as they enter. In the car, they find an unconscious man, barely breathing. His trousers are damp, likely the lighter fluid but possibly also urine, and a burnt out butt of a cigarette sits in his lap. Brice grabs the cigarette butt and tosses it away, and he and Bellingham take the patient and carry him into the house.

“Harry,” Bellingham says, “get the oxygen for me so I can hook him up… perfect, thanks…”

Brice quickly sets up the biophone, calling in, “Rampart, this is Squad 16.”

“ _Squad 16, go ahead._ ”

“Rampart, we have a male patient, age approximately forty, who is suffering from carbon monoxide poisoning. Vital signs are… pulse 135… respirations 10… BP is 140/90.”

“ _Is the patient on oxygen?_ ”

“Affirmative, Rampart.”

“ _Continue oxygen therapy and monitor the patient’s vitals and airway. Transport as soon as possible._ ”

“10-4, Rampart.”

“Hope if we hafta intubate him, it’s here,” Bellingham says, “Cap, what’s the ETA on the ambulance?”

“Shouldn’t be long now, Bob. Wexler, go out and wait with Palmer.”

The woman steps up to speak to them, asking, “Is he gonna be alright?”

“I think so,” Brice answers, “We’ll be taking him to Rampart. They’re the best.”

Thankfully, the patient starts coming around by the time the ambulance arrives, so Bellingham alone goes with him in the ambulance, Brice following in the squad. At Rampart, Bellingham waits at the emergency bay, chatting with Early. Brice doesn’t really like to play favorites, but Early is his favorite doctor they deal with, his favorite to be treated by. He’s just got a quiet sort of calm that can put anyone at ease in seconds, has an easy-going manner, a gentle smile. Brice genuinely likes him.

“Hello, Brice. Bob here was telling me about your run just now. That was some poor science on his part. Lucky for him, though,” Early says.

“He may not think so at the moment, but it certainly was,” Brice replies.

“Yeah, he was wakin’ up a bit on the way in. Didn’t seem too thankful, but he was pretty out of it, so I can’t say for sure,” Bellingham says, “Wonder why he did it.”

“I suppose he’ll tell us when he wakes up. Anyway, I’ll see you around, fellas…”

Early heads off for a patient, and Brice and Bellingham make their way out to the squad.

“Y’know, Brice… I probably shouldn’t laugh or nothin’, but that was pretty funny.”

“Funny?”

“Yeah. I mean, you’d think if you were gonna kill yourself, you’d do a ‘lil research first to make sure you were gonna get it right. Wish I knew what he was thinkin’.”

“He likely wasn’t. Either that or he simply doesn’t know about the fire triangle.”

“Well, he’ll know now. C’mon, let’s go back to the station, kid.”

The engine isn’t there, likely called to another run in the meantime. Since it’s close to lunch, Brice makes himself and Bellingham sandwiches, and they sit in the kitchen table next to each other. They’re close, Brice and Bellingham, because of their shared-… Brice isn’t sure what to call it. Words exist for lesbians and gays and bisexuals and transsexuals, but there’s apparently no word for people like him and Bellingham who don’t seem to have any sexuality. Even Ivy’s friends who are well entrenched in the queer community don’t know of a word for it yet. _I suppose we don’t need a word… but it would be nice._

They’re done their sandwiches by the time the engine returns, the four men grumbling as they walk into the kitchen.

“Where you fellas been?” Bellingham asks.

“A dumpster fire,” Palmer replies, “and a smelly one at that.”

“What was in it?”

“Hell if I know. All I know is it was nasty. Wexler here almost threw up.”

“Hey! You almost threw up, too!”

“Not the point, kid.”

Brice likes Wexler. Jim Weiss, an all-around awful human being, quickly transferred from Station 16 after his confrontation with Bellingham, and apparently rumors of his bigotry followed him to the point where he quit the department. Daniel Wexler is much younger than Weiss and much nicer, about three years out of the Academy. His thick hair is somewhere between blond and brown, his moustache the same color, his eyes as warm and dark as coffee, his build tall and thick.

“Whatever… c’mon, guys, we never finished choosin’ positions for the game,” Wexler says, “I think Bellingham said he’d play a shortstop position. I like the outfield or second base. I mean, those are the positions left after B-shift chose theirs.”

“Those, and we still need another baseman, a couple outfielders, and a catcher,” Palmer states, “I like the outfield.”

“So do I,” Sauvageau agrees, “and Cap said he’d do first base.”

“What about you, Brice?” Wexler asks, smiling, “You up for playin’ catcher?”

“Oh, I- I wasn’t going to play-“

“What? Why not?”

His expression borders on hurt, and deciding the truth is best, Brice admits, “Because I don’t know how to play baseball.”

He gets four dumbfounded looks and reiterates what he said to Bellingham earlier, “How could I learn when no one wanted to play with me?”

He still sees dumbfounded looks. There’s a beat, and Wexler grins, “Well… we could teach you to play baseball, Brice!”

“I couldn’t impose on you like-“

“I’d love to! I played ball in high school and helped the Little League team for my local Jewish center. I mean, you won’t be on the professional level, but neither are we. I think it’ll be fun! C’mon, we’ll start now!”

Wexler grabs Brice’s arm and practically drags him out back, has to sheepishly run in and grab a pair of baseball gloves and the ball. Brice feels a bit silly just tossing a ball back and forth, Wexler giving him occasional hints on how to improve, some of his throws going wildly off target. It is nice to loosen up a bit, though.

“See, Brice, you’re gettin’ better!”

“I can tell. The ball isn’t going so far off course,” he smirks.

Wexler laughs, lobs the ball in a high arc Brice struggles to catch but somehow does. The applause from his shiftmates makes him blush, but it also makes him feel very good.

xXxXx

Bob grins from the doorway, loving the sight of Brice doing something so mundane as tossing a baseball back and forth. He’s not bad, though his form isn’t great, throwing like he’s seen people do it and is copying them instead of really knowing what he’s supposed to do. _Not too bad, though. Not too bad at all._ The boy even manages to catch an imitation pop-fly, the ball arcing high before hitting his glove. His blush at everyone’s applause is worth it.

“That was great!” Wexler says, “We’ll make you a catcher yet!”

“Hey, Danny, who’s our pitcher anyway?” Bob asks.

“Uh… Itou, I think. Tommy Itou.”

“Oh, that’s good. He’s good. Didn’t he play in some minor league for a bit?”

“Like a season,” Wexler replies, “It was real minor league, but he got paid for it. Hey, maybe we could get together with him on our days off so he can pitch to you, Brice.”

“If he agrees to it… then I suppose I would, too.”

Brice wears a light smile, pale eyes dancing behind his glasses. _This is damn near the happiest I’ve ever seen him._ Just like with everything else, Brice picks it up fast. He’s not perfect but not bad, either. He’ll be fine in a couple weeks playing catcher. It’s a quiet day for 16s, so they can spend most of their time practicing for the game, eventually setting up a little circle where they could toss the ball with some surprises. Everyone’s having a good time, and it’s really thanks to Wexler.

Wexler is young, younger than Brice, which is borderline incomprehensible to Bob. _They get younger every year._ Danny’s a great kid, though. He’s warm and kind and has a bubbly sort of personality that could brighten anyone’s mood. Indeed, Bob hadn’t realized they’d all been miserable with Weiss around until the black cloud left and the sunshine came. Wexler is always smiling, but even in the event they’re all upset, Wexler is the first to try and cheer everyone up with a joke or a funny story of some kind. _He’s a good boy._ He doesn’t even seem to think Brice is odd, and if he does, he hasn’t shown it. Cap and Palmer and Sauvageau all got used to Brice’s special brand of weirdness. Wexler accepted him right away.

Bob eventually excuses himself to go inside and make dinner (chicken and rice and vegetables) for everyone. Brice trails in after him a few minutes later, still flushed and faintly smiling.

“Not gonna stay outside and play with your friends?” Bob teases gently.

“I wanted to see if you wanted some help.”

“Guess I could always use another pair of hands…”

Brice steps in and is, as he always is, the perfect assistant. They don’t bump into each other unless they mean to, easily dancing around each other. For once, Brice is the talkative one, chatting about the impromptu baseball practice, and Bob grins as the boy’s hands flail excitedly.

“Y’know, kid, I don’t think I’ve ever seen ya like this.”

“Like what?”

“Happy.”

He gives a huff of laughter, saying, “Bob, you’ve seen me happy before.”

“Not happy like this… not here at the station,” Bob replies softly, “It makes me happy to see ya like this, Craig. You deserve to be this happy all the time.”

His cheeks flush a deeper pink, and he ducks his head, a small smile on his face. Bob inches closer, nudging Brice with his arm. Together, they finish up dinner, everyone trailing in in from outside. All the men of the shift are flushed and a little windswept and full of laughter. Bob can’t stop himself from grinning as Brice and Wexler set the table. They share funny stories and tell jokes. It’s perfect. And Brice still looks happy.

“Hey, c’mon, Brice, I bet you have some crazy stories from Florida,” Wexler says, “I mean, Florida’s full of crazy shit, right?”

“I don’t know…”

“Aw, come on! Tell us!”

“I knew a man who kept an alligator on his property,” Brice says, “He would feed it things like pizza and try to dress it up for holidays.”

“Are you serious? And it didn’t just eat him?” Palmer asks.

“Not all of him. He did get a hand bitten off.”

“And what happened to the alligator? Like, did they kill it?”

“No, he simply started feeding it with his hook instead,” Brice says matter of factly, “He was a good man, though. He liked rescuing alligators and snakes and moving them away from people, so one time I helped him remove an alligator from a swimming pool.”

Wexler’s eyes go wide, and he asks, “You wrestled an alligator, Brice?”

“I guess so. Mr. Harrison went in the pool and got it to the side, and I helped pull it out, sat on it and held on to it while he got out.”

“Did he have the hook hand at that point?”

“He did.”

“Dude… that’s fuckin’ badass,” Sauvageau states.

Bob has to stop himself from bursting into laughter because of course Brice has wrestled an alligator but has never played baseball. Dinner is wonderful, everyone sharing and laughing and smiling. _This is what it’s all about._ It’s so delightful that Bob is almost disappointed when the tones drop, calling the squad to an unknown injury. Once they arrive at the apartment, Bob knocks on the door, calling, “Fire department!”

“Just come in!” someone shouts.

“The door’s locked!”

“Break it in! I can’t get up!”

He steps aside, allowing Brice to quickly jimmy the door.

“You learn that in Florida?”

“Yes. Mr. Harrison was an interesting man.”

“You’ll hafta teach me sometime,” Bob says, calls, “Sir? Where are you?”

“Back here!”

They bring the equipment back to the bedroom, where a man lays on the bed on his stomach. He has a towel wrapped around his waist but nothing else, and Bob thinks he sees a bit of a blood on his legs. _Jesus Christ, what could this be…_ Remaining as professional as possible, Bob steps closer and asks, “What seems to be the problem, sir?”

“It’s, uh… difficult to explain.”

“Please try. We’re here to help ya.”

“It’s kinda embarrassing.”

“I specialize in embarrassing.”

“Well, see-… the problem is I-… I, uh, I sat on a-a fork and it’s-… it’s in my ass.”

“Okay, well, accidents happen. Just let us take a look and we’ll see it we can pop it out-“

“No, you don’t understand. It’s-… it’s ‘in’ my ass.”

“Oh… oh my…”

Brice bites back a smile and so does Bob, and Brice manages to ask, “Do you have any pain?”

“A bit… I think the points cut me somewhere,” he says sheepishly.

Brice puts on a pair of gloves, says, “Sir, I’m just going to take a quick look. Please don’t move,” and carefully lifts up the towel. Bob doesn’t envy him the task. Honestly, he’s glad it’s Brice instead of him. Bob has seen way too many foreign objects in way too many orifices over his career. _Time for someone much younger to take over that aspect of the job._ After a moment of inspection, Brice straightens up, telling the patient, “It’s stuck pretty well. I can’t even see the- the object. We’ll just make a quick call to Rampart Hospital and then take you in-“

“You fellas can’t take it out here?”

“I’m afraid not,” Brice replies, “You’re bleeding a bit, so we’d really prefer to take you to Rampart. They’ll take good care of you there… and they’re very discreet.”

Bob calls it in on the biophone (“ _Could you repeat that, 16?_ ”) and the ambulance arrives shortly after. They settle the patient on the gurney on his belly. Thankfully, the attendants don’t ask questions.

“You okay ridin’ in with him, kid?” Bob asks.

“Yes, I’ll be fine. See you at Rampart, Bob.”

He smiles as he closes the ambulance doors. Brice has been using his given name more and more and public, and Bob likes that. He still prefers Brice for himself among other people, but in private, Bob does get to call him Craig. It’s nice.

At Rampart, Bob finds Brice at the bay, smirking faintly. He says, “You’ll be happy to know that Dr. Early is taking care of our patient.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s thrilled right now.”

“He was smiling when he went in. I imagine we’ll get an earful later.”

“Oh, I imagine we’ll get an earful for a month, Brice. He’ll tell this story whenever he gets a chance,” Bob says, “Alright, we got everything? We should get back.”

The spring night is still comfortable, so the six men of Station 16 go back outside for a bit, tossing the baseball around once more.

xXxXx

The park around the baseball fields is a hive of activity. Firemen and their families and friends are milling about under the late afternoon sun after a series of games. Danny has never been happier, not in the department. He hasn’t been a fireman very long, but it’s the best job he’s ever had, especially now that he’s at 16s. The guys are all so nice and fun, every single one of them. _I mean, they’re kinda weird, but ya can’t exactly be right in the head if ya wanna be a fireman._ They make him feel at home.

His previous positions in the department hadn’t been so great. Danny has gotten his fair share of meanness and bigotry aimed at him for being Jewish, got called every name in the book, received every threat imaginable. Brushing them off got harder and harder to do. It felt unfair after a while. He felt he’d proved himself, did his job well, helped a lot of people, but some still seemed to hate him. Half the time, the hate didn’t even seem deliberate, but that was the hate that was most troubling.

Danny shakes himself out of his funk and looks over his shiftmates. Cap is chatting with his wife, a beautiful woman with dark skin like his and an afro, a baby on her hip and a pair of four year olds running a circle around them. Palmer is talking with Stoker from 51s, both very intent. Sauvageau sits at a table, arm slung around his fiancée, both cooing over his future stepdaughter. Bellingham grins, standing with a small group of paramedics including Gage and DeSoto from 51s and Petersen and Saito from 99s. Brice sits nearby, alone. Excusing himself from his own conversation, Danny goes and sits with Brice.

“I didn’t think anyone would want to talk to me,” Brice mumbles.

“Why not?”

“Because I lost the game for everyone. Why would they talk to a loser?”

“C’mon, man, it’s not like ya lost it singlehanded. We all lost together. If anything, I think we oughta blame Henderson. He’s a terrible first baseman.”

That elicits a little chuckle from Brice, so Danny continues, “I really mean that. He’s awful. Can’t catch or throw to save his life… and he actually used to play! You believe that? You were better then him by a mile, Brice, and you only learned how to play a couple weeks ago!”

There’s a tinge of pink in Brice’s cheeks that might not be sunburn. Brice is weirder than the others, definitely, but he’s a good person, if a bit straight-laced. Even out of uniform, he always looks put together. Today for the baseball game, he wore the same sweatpants and t-shirt and ball cap as everyone else, even wore the ball cap backwards! (Of course, as catcher, he kind of had to, but it was still an interesting sight.) The paramedic seemed much looser than usual all day, and Danny’s been enjoying it. Bellingham comes over, sits next to Brice, drapes an arm over his partner’s shoulders.

“Here’s the hero of the day,” the big man grins, Gage and DeSoto joining them, “You did great today, you know that, kid?”

“Yeah, you made some incredible catches today, Brice,” Gage agrees.

Brice flushes deeper red, mumbles, “Oh, it was nothing-“

“Nah, it was amazing!” Danny pipes up.

“I dunno how you even caught some of those,” DeSoto comments.

“Just-… Just beginner’s luck, I suppose,” Brice replies.

“Beginner’s luck?”

“Yes, Johnny,” Bellingham tells him, “Brice here is a prodigy, as if we had any doubts about that. Just learned how to play over the last two weeks.”

Gage’s face takes on an almost comical expression of disbelief and he says, “You-? You just learned how to play? You- Roy, he just learned how to play.”

“Yeah, I heard, Johnny.”

“If it’s any consolation, I’m sure it was beginner’s luck. If I play again, I’m guaranteed to overthink it and ruin everything,” Brice says, “This was a fluke.”

“Oh yeah? Say, Brice, you wanna bet on tha-“

“Uh-uh, no ya don’t,” DeSoto says, rolling over his partner, steering him away from them, “Do I need to remind you what happened with 36s a couple years ago?”

They argue as they walk away, and Bellingham laughs beside Brice. The two of them bicker gently with each other over Brice’s embarrassment. They’re obviously close, very close. _I’ve heard paramedics are kinda weird._ Paramedics have a hard job, though. They need to be close, or at least it’s easier if they’re close, if they can communicate with as few words as possible and without bumping into one another. _And Brice and Bellingham are very close._

The thoughts are derailed as Palmer pulls him in to talk with Quinn and Arlington from 45s. Though when he looks over, they’re still sitting together, pressed close, and Bellingham ruffles Brice’s hair. Brice tries to shrug him off, but he’s no match for the big man. Bellingham keeps him there as Kelly, Lopez, and Stoker from 51s come over to talk to them. _Lopez ad Stoker are lookin’ pretty close there, too._ Quickly deciding it’s none of his business, Danny focuses back in on his conversation with Quinn and Arlington.


	26. But My Fears Have Deep Roots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: mild language

“Bob, please hurry up,” Brice says, “We don’t want to be late.”

“Don’t worry, kid, we’re not gonna be late… and even if we are, who cares?”

“I care.”

“Aw, with a party like this, it ain’t a big deal,” Bellingham says, “People are gonna be comin’ and goin’ the whole time. Stoker isn’t gonna remember if we show up a ‘lil bit late.”

Brice purses his lips but doesn’t argue. He doesn’t really have an argument. Bellingham is usually right when it comes to things like this, able to smooth Brice’s ruffled feathers caused by his overthinking. Looking down, Brice shuffles his feet a bit. Despite Bellingham’s assurances, he still feels underdressed in his polo shirt and khaki pants and sneakers. He’s used to being either in uniform or business casual. Rarely is he ever seen in public like this. _Not to mention my own personal concerns which, well, concern me lately._ He shakes that from his head.

Bellingham steps into the living room with his sneakers in hand, drops onto the couch to put them on. He’s dressed much the same as Brice, perhaps in solidarity so he would feel better.

“I heard they were surprising Stoker with the news,” Brice says after a moment, “I hope he’ll be pleased with his promotion.”

“Oh, I’m sure he will be. I know Stoker, and he wouldn’t’ve taken the test if he wasn’t ready to move up the ladder. Gotta be sure about these things, after all.”

“It must have been a difficult choice. He’s very close with his shiftmates at 51s… especially Lopez. They’ve lived together for several years now.”

“Stoker and Lopez oughta be married by now. They’re about the worst kept secret in the department, but ya know what they say, ‘Ask me no questions and I’ll tell ya no lies.’ I think that’s best for now, though,” Bellingham shrugs.

“I feel bad for them, though, Bob,” Brice says, “They should be able to show they love each other in public, just as anyone else does. I feel the same about Rosie and Ivy.”

“Things gotta change sometime, kid. Might change slow, but they’ll change one day, and then people like Stoker and Lopez and Ivy and Rosie won’t hafta hide anymore.”

“Sounds like a bright future. I hope we’ll see it.”

“Me too, Craig. C’mon, let’s go.”

It’s a fairly short trip to Captain Stanley’s house, though there’s already no parking right out front. Brice recognizes most of the vehicles there. Those parked closest belong to 51s A-shift, which makes sense since they are Stoker’s shift. A couple are unfamiliar, but most of them he knows. Brice feels some anxiety rearing up in his chest and tries to fight it down, wanting to actually enjoy himself at the party. As if he can sense it, Bellingham quickly gives Brice’s hand a squeeze, silently letting him know it will be alright. _And it will be._ _I know it._ Together, they exit the truck and walk up to the back gate.

Children run around the yard, laughing and playing, parents looking on. Firemen and paramedics mill about, chatting and telling jokes. They locate Stoker in short order, the soon-to-be captain smiling sheepishly at all the well-wishes. Bellingham steps up first with a vigorous handshake, saying, “Congrats, Mike. Couldn’t’ve happened to a better guy.”

“Thanks, Bob.”

“Stoker, I would like to offer my congratulations,” Brice follows, “I have no doubt you will make an excellent captain for whichever station you are assigned.”

“Thank you, Brice. I really appreciate it.”

Stoker’s smile is soft, as is Lopez’s as he stands beside him. Brice replies, “You are very welcome. Lopez, I hear you wish to become an engineer.”

“It’s the next logical step. Anyway, I think it’s time for me to move up and make room in the ranks for guys much younger and fitter, you know what I mean?”

"I suppose I do,” Brice says, and certain that Bellingham and Stoker are engaged in conversation, he continues, “I've been debating the same move myself for several months now. However, I find the paramedic work to be both interesting and stimulating in various ways that the position of engineer is not, though the reverse is also true."

"Brice, with your commitment to detail, you could go right on up to captain, maybe even chief," Marco tells him, "I'm sure the brass would love you in their ranks."

"Of that, I'm not entirely sure."

He offers Lopez a small smile, one Lopez returns easily. He takes Brice by the arm, "Say, Brice, have you met Ellie Starrett yet? She's going for her PhD in astrophysics…"

“Starrett? Captain Starrett’s-?“

“Daughter. She’s really nice. C’mon… Hey, Ellie!”

Brice’s first thought is that Miss Starrett is conventionally attractive, with vivid red hair and a round freckled face and warm brown eyes. _One could say she’s beautiful._ Lopez says, “Ellie, this is Craig Brice, one of the paramedics. Brice, this is Ellie Starrett.”

They greet each other politely, and Lopez leaves to chat with someone else. After a short conversation, it becomes apparent that she’s wildly intelligent, though he knew that from her course of study. They discuss the recently completed free flight of the space shuttle _Enterprise_ and the June death of Dr. Wernher von Braun, the famous rocket scientist. Their discussion of von Braun is enlightening, one of the best Brice has had in recent memory. He feels bad for not being attracted to her.

He soon makes his way over to Bellingham, Gage, and DeSoto.

“Y’know, bein’ a captain probably wouldn’t be so bad, fellas,” Gage muses, “Captains are always busy, always got a lotta work to do at a scene.”

“And they have a lotta paperwork,” DeSoto says.

Gage’s smirk falters with an, “Oh,” his brow knit. Bellingham speaks up, “Besides, John, I think you’re forgettin’ something. We hafta be engineers before we can be captains.”

“Not Brice here. He could probably take the chief’s exam and come out first.”

“Even if that were true, Gage, do you really think the chiefs would want to work with me?”

Gage’s bark of laughter is loud and warm, and it makes Brice smile. It seems to have drawn Kelly in, the lineman asking, “Hey, who invited a hyena?”

“Johnny here was just shocked,” DeSoto says, “See, Brice made a joke.”

“Of course he did. Brice is a funny guy when he wants to be,” Kelly says, “and Johnny’s such an easy target, after all-“

“Oh, shut up, Chet.”

There’s no venom in Gage’s voice, though. It seems to be the usual response to Kelly’s special brand of humor. Brice asks Kelly, “We were discussing promotions. Do you have any plans for that?”

“Reckon I’d like to be an engineer one day, but I’ll probably be a lineman ‘til I die. I’m not too tore up over it anymore. I was once but I’m over it now.”

“Aw, c’mon, Chet,” Bellingham says, “You’re gonna be a captain one day. We’re all gonna be captains together.”

His smiling surety is enough for Brice, enough to make him believe it. For once, Brice doesn’t want to leave early. He and Bellingham stay until they’re the only ones left with 51s, all chatting happily, but none are happier than Stoker and Lopez. When Brice mentions it, Lopez says, “It was a good surprise. Hard one to keep, though. I just kept wanting to tell him ‘cause I was so proud.”

“I’m a little perturbed you kept that secret so well, babe-“

Stoker clamps his mouth shut, but Brice only smiles, tells them, “I also keep secrets very well… and I’m very happy for both of you… in every way.”

Their smiles are enough for him. The two of them leave shortly after that, and Brice and Bellingham stay to help clean up the yard. DeSoto is the next to leave, taking his family home.

“Well, fellas, I think me and Chet are gonna go for a drink,” Gage says, “You two are welcome to come with us if ya want. Shouldn’t be out too late, I don’t think.”

“Yeah, come on, guys,” Kelly agrees, “We always say we oughta hang out more.”

“Then I suppose we ought to come… hang out,” Brice says.

He’s receiving lots of thanks in the form of smiles tonight, though Kelly’s is the brightest so far. _This is very nice… much nicer than I ever expected._ Brice smiles back warmly.

The little bar isn’t far away. Brice has never been here, but the other three greet the bartender warmly before heading to a table. It’s quaint on the inside, the walls decorated with a lot of local memorabilia and photos of Hollywood stars that once visited. _Rather like most bars in Los Angeles, it seems._ Brice hasn’t visited many as a patron, but his chosen profession has brought him into many bars of varying kinds, from nasty dives to swanky martini bars. This one at least appears clean and well-kept.

The bartender brings over four beers, pausing for a brief conversation about a fire from last week. He asks a couple questions that pique Brice’s interest, and finally, Kelly says, “I forgot you two probably never met. Brice, this is Earl Harris. He used to be a fireman back in the day, and a great one at that.”

“C’mon, kid, I’m nothin’ special-“

“Lemme talk ya up, Earl… now Earl, this is Craig Brice, a paramedic.”

“Pleasure to meet ya, Craig,” Harris grins, “Been in the department long?”

“Seven years.”

“Really? Christ, ya all look like kids anymore… ‘cept you, Bob.”

“Thanks, Earl. I really appreciate that,” Bellingham mumbles.

Brice ignores him save to smirk, asking, “How long were you in the department, Mr. Harris?”

“Call me, Earl, kid. Oh, I was in about twenty years,” he answers warmly, “Probably woulda been in ‘til I died if I hadn’t been hurt at a brushfire. Tree fell on me and damn near broke my back. I was bedridden for a bit and just couldn’t work anymore. At least here I get to see all the firemen and talk to ya and pretend I’m back for a bit.”

“You still miss it?”

“Every day… but I can handle it now. Anyway, I gotta get back there. You fellas holler if ya need anything.”

Brice ducks his head as Harris leaves, says, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Gage tells him, “We’ve all been there. C’mon, let’s do a toast.”

“Yeah,” Kelly agrees, “to Mike… to Captain Stoker.”

“To Captain Stoker,” they chorus.

They drink, and Gage says, “Man… Captain Stoker… Sure has a nice ring to it.”

“It does,” Brice nods, “I know he’s going to do a wonderful job.”

“He’s gonna be incredible, just incredible. Y’know, if I didn’t like Cap’n Stanley so much, I’d be mad we weren’t gettin’ him for our captain.”

“Yeah, and Marco’s takin’ the engineer’s exam soon, too. Maybe he can take Mike’s spot, John. That’s be great, huh?” Kelly says.

“It would be, but I don’t think it’ll happen. He’ll probably go with Mike, so-“

Gage cuts himself off abruptly, but Brice leans in and says, “We know.”

“Know what?”

“About Lopez and Stoker.”

“What about ‘em?”

“Gage, you feign innocence very poorly,” Brice tells him, earning a snort from Kelly, “You know very well what I’m talking about in regards to Lopez and Stoker.”

“Yeah, Johnny,” Bellingham agrees, “They’re the ‘everyone knows but no one talks about it’ of the department.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Brice and Bellingham chime.

“Huh… well, then… yeah, I reckon Marco’ll go somewhere to stay close to Mike so they can keep seein’ each other at work,” Gage takes another sip of beer, “S’pose I would if it were me.”

A pause falls, and Bellingham asks, “So, when you takin’ the engineer’s exam, Chet?”

“Me? Never again, that’s when.”

“But earlier you said-“

“Yeah, yeah… well, I embarrassed the hell outta myself when I took it a few years ago, and I’d really prefer not to relive that experience,” Kelly replies.

“You can’t have done that badly,” Brice says, “Your studying went well. Stoker helped you.”

“He sure did… and I came in seventy-fourth.”

“That isn’t so bad.”

Kelly fixes him with a look of frustrated disbelief, so Brice continues, “It’s true. Hundreds of firemen take the exam, and you did better than the large majority. If you were to take the exam once more, I have no doubt you’ll excel, Chet.”

Three men blink at Brice. _I’ve never called him by his nickname before._ A moment passes, and Kelly asks, “You-? You really think so, Brice?”

“Of course. I would never say something that isn’t true.”

“I can vouch for that,” Bellingham says.

Kelly’s mood improves after that. Their conversation moves away from work for a bit but circles back eventually when Gage asks Bellingham about a promoted colleague.

“I mean, I was sure McLaws was gonna keep on bein’ a-a paramedic ‘til he died or got retired. I never expected him to move up to engineer, not so soon anyway,” Gage says.

“Yeah, no, I agree,” Bellingham replies, “He only became a paramedic, like… jeez, I think it was in ’72 or ’73? Yeah, it’s only been about five years.”

“Just doesn’t make sense to me. We go through a lotta training and certs. I sure wouldn’t quit doin’ this after just a few years. Now, Roy took the engineer’s exam when Chet did, but I always knew he wasn’t gonna take the promotion.”

“Really? I’m rememberin’ that a ‘lil differently, I think,” Kelly says.

“Oh, buzz off, Chet. So I was a- just a ‘lil worried. So what?”

“So I remember you were freakin’ out, babe! You were plannin’ for the worst when ya heard the places!”

“Anyway,” Gage says pointedly, “it just doesn’t make much sense to me, is all.”

“Well, McLaws is a bit older,” Bellingham speaks up, “Gets to the point a fella just can’t keep doin’ this, like it hurts his knees too much or his back… I been thinkin’ about takin’ the engineer’s exam myself.”

Brice narrowly averts spitting out his drink, turns, says, “Bob, you never told me this.”

“I wasn’t thinkin’ about it now or real seriously. I’m just kickin’ the idea around, is all. As my sister is so fond of tellin’ me, I’m not gettin’ any younger. Hell, I’m gonna be forty next year, fellas. I can’t keep doin’ this shit forever. Just the way it is.”

His tone is calm, unaffected, as if he’s talking about the weather or a sports score. What he’s just mentioned is nothing so inconsequential as either of those things. It’s life-changing. Brice swallows his shock as best he can and decides, either out of surprise or out of spite, to tell everyone, “I’ve also been considering the engineer’s exam.”

“Yeah? I didn’t know that,” Bellingham says.

“Similarly, I haven’t been seriously considering it, just… kicking it around.”

“Well, I gotta say, I can’t picture you as an engineer,” Gage tells him, “You’re just too good a paramedic. I can’t see ya doin’ anything else.”

“I dunno, John,” Kelly adds, “I think Brice would make a good chief. Can’t ya picture Brice here comin’ for inspection? Jesus, every station would flip out at the thought!”

“Humorous though that thought is, I believe I’d rather stay a paramedic as long as possible. No other position has the same level of excitement or diversity.”

“I agree, kid. Always told Terrie I’m gonna be a paramedic ‘til I’m seventy or die tryin’.”

Brice ignores the uncomfortable flop of his stomach. _It’s only a figure of speech._ The four of them sit together for a long time, just catching up with each other, and Brice is honestly enjoying himself. He generally gets along with Gage, but Kelly he’s always been a bit unsure about, could never tell if the lineman actually liked him was just really good at pretending. After he was lost at the brushfire two years ago, Kelly was right there with Gage to bring him out. Brice’s relationship with 51s isn’t stellar but they get along. He’s actually surprised with how well he and Kelly get along, as Kelly isn’t the sort of personality Brice usually agrees with. _But we’ve both been outcasts… both alone but for the department._ That sort of similarity tends to breed connection, particularly in their profession.

It’s night when they finally break off their reunion, Gage and Kelly heading off together while Brice and Bellingham do the same. _I forgot Gage and Kelly moved in together._ He doesn’t think their arrangement is anything like Lopez and Stoker’s, but he does know they’re close. Something clenches in Brice’s chest as he looks over at his partner. They’re close, too, Brice and Bellingham. _But one day…_ Brice casts the thought out even as unease seizes his heart.

Bellingham invites him in for another quick drink, and Brice can’t turn him down. They troop up to the apartment together, both quiet, the silence becoming more uncomfortable the longer it goes on. Brice isn’t quite sure how to break it without putting his foot in his mouth. Finally, after a few minutes, Bellingham sighs and asks, “What’s eatin’ ya, kid?”

“Nothing is-“

“Don’t lie to me. Somethin’s buggin’ ya. I know it is.”

There’s a coolness creeping in at the edges of his voice, and it spurs Brice’s fears. Heat flares in Brice’s cheeks, and he ducks his head, unable to look at his partner. He replies haltingly, “Just- It’s… I don’t often think of the future in terms of my career, and today I was forced to, Bob.”

“Then why’d ya tell Lopez you were thinkin’ about takin’ the engineer’s exam?”

“He told you?”

“Just mentioned it in passing.”

“So you lied, at the bar, when you said you didn’t know.”

“Not quite a lie. I didn’t know before Marco told me. How come you didn’t tell me?”

“I-I don’t know, really,” Brice answers honestly, “It’s just been a-a passing thought, something I’ve briefly considered and pushed aside. I’m not even sure why I mentioned it to Lopez-“

“Craig, calm down. I’m not upset-“

“Now you are lying to me.”

Brice finally looks up at his partner. Bellingham looks almost perplexed but Brice continues, “I know you’re upset with me, or else you wouldn’t have brought up the engineer’s exam in front of Gage and Kelly, and you wouldn’t have lied about not knowing-“

“It was just small talk-“

“-and that’s-… it can only be because you’re finally sick of me. Moving up to engineer is the perfect way to get rid of me-“

“Shut up!”

Bellingham’s words are forceful enough to quiet Brice, though he does feel a little flare of vindication. _Yes, tell me that you hate me. Tell me the truth._ Bellingham turns to him, twisting in his seat, tells Brice firmly, “Stop-… Just stop that, Craig. Stop just- just fuckin’ thinkin’ like that!”

He gets to his feet, paces a bit in front of the couch, runs a hand through his hair.

“Look, Craig, I know your life was shitty. I know people hated you and bullied you and made you feel like you were worthless but- Christ, haven’t I proven I’m not gonna do that to you?” he says, “Haven’t I proven how much I care about you?”

“Everyone who treated me poorly or abandoned me at one point cared about me,” Brice replies, “To me, it’s only a matter of time before someone who cares no longer does.”

“I’m not like that. You know that.”

“I’ve been told that before.”

Bellingham sighs in frustration, and Brice knows he doesn’t make sense. It makes sense to him, though, but he isn’t sure how to argue his point. He just sits stiffly, looking at his hands in his lap, not saying anything.

xXxXx

Bob almost doesn’t want to look at Brice right now, his frustration peaking. He’s done nothing but prove how he loves the boy, but Brice keeps doubting him. He lets himself breathe deep, tries to calm down, doesn’t want his irritation to show in his voice. Reeling in all his emotions, Bob turns back to Brice. The boy hasn’t moved. He’s still as a statue, looking down at his lap. Bob sighs softly, sits beside Brice, says, “Kid… explain it to me. Explain what you’re feeling.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Just try.”

Brice fidgets more, picking absently at the edges of his nails, his leg bouncing. _I can be patient._ So he waits until Brice finally says, “I-… I suppose… I’m feeling afraid.”

“Why afraid?”

“I’m afraid of losing you,” Brice whispers softly, “I could lose you any day we work, and while I’m not… prepared for such a thing, I have-… I have considered it. Something so awful would still be preferable to the alternative… to you leaving because you wanted to.”

“I promised I wouldn’t leave ya, didn’t I? I ever break a promise?”

“There’s a first time for everything, Bob. It’s- Look, I trust you more than I trust anyone else in the universe, so it’s not that I don’t trust you personally. I do. Just-“

“People have broken your trust before,” Bob says, “I get that. Once bitten, twice shy.”

“Exactly. Somehow, though… I never considered you getting a promotion. Not in a bad way. Not that you aren’t capable of it… I’ve never considered you accepting a promotion.”

“Well, neither have I… until pretty recently. Like I said, though, as much as I’d like to do this forever, I think my body may protest. I gotta keep fit enough to do all the stuff I wanna do one day, y’know?” he smiles at Brice, giving him a nudge.

The gesture at least makes Brice smile a bit, and he says, “Yes, you want to- to go to the mountains to see the leaves change and you want to see the flowers in the desert.”

“You remembered. How sweet,” he smirks.

Brice sits up fully, looks at Bob, tells him, “I remember lots of things.”

“I know ya do, so you should remember I promised I’d stick with ya as long as possible,” Bob replies, taking Brice’s hand in his own, “You remember I told ya I love ya, right?”

“Yes… Yes, I remember that, Bob,” he murmurs, blushing, “and I remember telling you the same… that I love you.”

“And that’s something I remember.”

Giving Brice’s hand a squeeze, he pulls him in for a hug. Brice all but melts into him, nestling against his side, releasing a soft sigh. _My dear sweet boy…_ Somehow, right from the beginning, Bob has always been protective of Brice, has always wanted to show him people can be caring and not cruel. Show him kindness and gentleness and softness and love. Show him the world doesn’t need to be dark and cruel and unforgiving and lonely, that sometimes it can be beautiful and good and wonderful. There are always, however, hard lessons to teach.

“Craig, listen…” Bob says quietly, keeping his arms around him, “Sometimes… Sometimes people have to leave. Partners get split up. Guys get hurt or-or they die. It’s just the way it is. I don’t want you thinkin’ we have some magic bubble around us where that’s somehow not the case. It’ll happen to us, too, one day. As much as we don’t want it to, it’ll happen.”

“What’ll happen to us then?” Brice whispers.

“We’ll stay close. Our relationship won’t change, kid. That I can promise. I love ya too much to let ya off that easy. Plus Terrie and Frank and the kids love ya. You’re family now.”

“That’s very good to know, Bob… very good indeed.”

He nestles back in against Bob’s side, pressing close, and Bob allows himself to push aside all the fears for the future and just enjoy the moment.


	27. To Embody the Irreparable Disaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: some strong language, depictions of injuries, death.

Ivy flops down beside Rosie on the couch, says, “Baby, we really oughta go on a vacation.”

“We just went to Disneyland last month.”

“That’s not really a vacation, though. It’s so close by. Nah, we gotta get away for a bit, go to a different city, a different state even. Somewhere we’ve never been.”

“Okay then, sugar, where exactly do you wanna go?” Rosie asks.

“That’s just it, I don’t really know. I’ve never been anywhere.”

“Never?”

“Do you really think my hardcore conservative parents were taking us on vacation?”

Rosie makes a noise of agreement, sits back thoughtfully, asks, “Well, would you wanna stay nearby or go far away?”

“I’ve never done either. Which do you like best?”

“It depends. Sometimes I just wanna explore something close by, maybe something I’ve heard of but haven’t visited, something like that. Other times, it’s nice to get away from what you know. What sounds better, baby?”

“I just… I just don’t really know,” Ivy says, chewing her lip.

Rosie smirks, leans in, tells Ivy, “Hey, I got an idea… Why don’t I surprise you? I’ll pick somewhere amazing and we’ll just go. How does that sound?”

Smiling back, Ivy replies, “That sounds just perfect,” and leans in to kiss her. Rosie kisses right back.

xXxXx

“Hey, Chet, can I ask ya somethin’?” Johnny calls from the kitchen.

“Ya just did.”

“Dammit, you know what I mean.”

“Then ask away, babe.”

Johnny makes his way back into the living room, carrying a beer for each of them, and sits on the couch beside Chet. Chet waits patiently, knowing his friend will speak in good time. A few sips of beer later, Johnny finally says, “Reckon I just oughta come right out and be blunt about it… Do you think Brice and Bellingham are- are, well-“

“Fucking?” Chet offers with a smirk.

“S’pose that’s more blunt than I was tryin’ to be, but yeah, that’s the gist of it.”

“What makes ya ask? I mean, I know you’re nosy, but-“

“I am not nosy! I just- I dunno, Chet. I’m just curious, that’s all. I mean, I can tell they’re close. Pretty much anybody can tell that. They’d hafta be close for Bob to put up with him half the time, I reckon,” Johnny says, “Just- Just I can’t tell if they’re- well, you know.”

Chet takes a moment to think about it, sips his beer, replies, “I don’t think they’re fucking. What you said is right, though. They’re definitely close. I talked to Palmer once, the engineer at 16s, and he told me a couple years ago they had a fella around the station named Weiss. Was shootin’ off his mouth about Brice- oh yeah, it was when Dorset died. Well, Palmer said Weiss was callin’ Brice a buncha derogatory shit, and Bob snapped. Said he snatched Weiss up and pinned him against the wall. How badass is that, John?”

“Never knew he had it in him.”

“Well, I guess I’d kick someone’s ass for ya, babe.”

“Thanks, Chet, Reckon I’d kick someone’s ass for you, too,” Johnny smiles.

“And that kinda answers the question you didn’t ask.”

“What’s that?”

“If Brice and Bellingham aren’t fucking, what’s their relationship like?” Chet responds, smiling back, “Guess their relationship is a bit like ours. There’s closeness and a ‘lil commitment… something like intimacy. I mean, we have all that and we’re not doin’ it, right?”

“Yeah… Yeah, Chet, I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I am.”

“Oh, shut up.”

The common refrain is said with a gentle smile and tone. _It’s as good as ‘I love you’._ Those particular words don’t pass between them all that often, if at all. They’re usually said after a hard run, a scary one where someone could have gotten hurt. It’s really the only time they’re said, in those moments of trouble and fear. In usual moments, they feel too deep, too real, but also somehow unnecessary. Why should they waste breath telling each other what they already know?

“Oh, Chet?”

“Hmm? What is it?”

“Just wanted to ask if you were feelin’ okay lately. You- uh… You had a couple bad dreams lately, is all.”

“I-I’m fine, Johnny. You know I just have nightmares sometimes. About ‘Nam, about the job… honestly, as a fireman, they’re kinda unavoidable, y’know.”

“No, no, I know that. Just- I dunno, seems to me like ya had ‘em a bit more often than usual,” Johnny says quietly, “Guess I’m just a ‘lil worried about you.”

Emotions seizes Chet’s throat. Unable to thank him verbally, Chet scoots closer to Johnny and drops his head onto the bony shoulder. He feels Johnny’s head drop to meet his.

“Johnny, I-… I’m glad you’re my friend. I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad you’re here too, Chet.”

Chet won’t tell him the nature of the nightmares plaguing him recently, about how he watches everyone he loves die in a variety of gruesome ways. He pushes the memories out and focuses on Johnny’s presence beside him, warm and comforting.

“You’re not very comfortable, John,” he teases.

“Well, no one says ya hafta to be all over me like an octopus.”

“But I like bein’ an octopus.”

“Then don’t complain about me bein’ too skinny.”

“I like to complain, too.”

“Oh, I know you do. You’re such an asshole, Chet.”

Johnny’s smile and tone are loving, though, so Chet laughs softly, grins, tells Johnny, “And you’re an asshole, too.”

xXxXx

“Got everything in there, kid?” Bob asks, “I know Ferguson said they were pretty busy yesterday and especially last night.”

Brice goes through the drug and IV boxes with practiced efficiency, tells Bob, “We could do with some more supplies, but we can start the shift without issue, I think.”

“That’s good… ‘cause I got a bad feelin’ we’re gonna be just as busy. Highways have been a shit show lately. Just bad accidents almost every day.”

“I know. It’s rather strange, but I’ve noticed these sorts of things come in waves.”

Bob hums an affirmative, heads into the kitchen for a cup of coffee.

“ _Station 16, Station 51, Station 128, multiple vehicle accident on the freeway…_ ”

Doing an about face, Bob grumbles, “And so it begins,” and returns to the squad, helping Brice quickly put everything away. It doesn’t take too long to get to the freeway. _They called for another engine, though. Must be bad._ Rush hour crashes usually are. People in a hurry to get to work make mistakes. Other people hurrying look away from the road to see the accident and cause accidents themselves. Yet more people in a hurry sit honking and swearing at the first responders. It doesn’t really bother Bob anymore. He’s far too used to people berating him for doing his job, but it does irritate him a little bit. He pulls up the squad next to 51s.

“Hey, fellas!” Roy calls, “Just in time for the fun!”

“Yeah, sure looks like we are. CHP have any info?”

“Not yet. Just know where the center is.”

Brice and Bob pull on their turnouts and grab their equipment, following Roy and Johnny into the epicenter. Most victims are out of their cars, nursing bumps and bruises and small cuts. None of them report any serious injuries, so the paramedics keep moving until they all get flagged down by victims. Bob goes to an older woman and her husband.

“Please, sir, I’m alright, but my husband is hurt,” she says.

“Alright, lemme see what the problem is… Sir?” Bob calls, “Sir, can you hear me?”

The man blinks. Blood drips from a cut at his hairline, and he’s got a sizeable lump growing there, too. Bob quickly determines the man probably has a concussion and a broken wrist. For now, all he can do is splint the wrist and bandage the head wound. The ambulance will come soon enough. Bob tells them to wait and be patient, and he moves on to the next car. Up ahead, Brice is treating a young man with a busted leg. Roy and Johnny are teamed up on a family vehicle, with Johnny treating the adults while Roy distracts the children.

Everyone’s injuries are largely the same: concussions, head wounds, neck pain, broken wrists, broken legs. _The usual._ The paramedics triage and treat what needs to be treated, passing over what can wait. It’s tedious, but it’s what needs to be done. Bob’s testing someone’s pupillary response when Brice shouts, “Bob! Bob, I need some help over here!”

Bob’s stomach bottoms out as he runs over, praying the boy isn’t hurt. Thankfully, he’s uninjured, but he’s got a whopper of a patient. The wreckage of what used to be a motorcycle lay nearby. A man is on the ground, blood completely covering his face and head, and it isn’t hard to see why. He must have been flying through traffic and wiped out. The contact with the asphalt practically scalped him, the skin partially peeled back from his skull. It’s a gruesome sight, especially paired with the skin sloughing off his arms, too.

“Whatcha got, kid?” Bob asks, unsure of what else to say.

“Well, I believe most of it is pretty clear,” Brice replies, “but I think there’s also some internal bleeding. I’m feeling some rigidity in the abdomen.”

Bob palpates the man’s abdomen too, confirms, “Yeah, probably blew out his spleen when he wiped out. How’s his pupils?”

“Unequal but reactive.”

“I figured as much… Here, take his vitals while I call it in… Rampart, Squad 16.”

“ _Squad calling in, go ahead._ ”

“Rampart, this is Squad 16. We have a male patient, about age twenty-five, who is the victim of a motorcycle accident. Victim has a partial avulsion of the scalp as well as degloving injuries of the arms. Stand by for vitals.”

“Bob, the pulse is… 130… respirations 28… BP is 90/70.”

He relays those, adding, “Also the pupils are unequal but reactive, and we have detected abdominal rigidity. Suspect internal bleeding.”

“ _16, administer IV D5-W with Ringer’s and 5mg MS IV push. Treat degloved areas with saline and sterile sheets. If you can get the degloved areas back in position without too much manipulation, do that and keep everything loosely wrapped._ ”

“Uh… IV with Ringer’s, 5mg MS IV push, rinse with saline, loosely wrap in sterile sheets. 10-4, Rampart. We’ll transport as soon as possible.”

Degloving injuries are far from Bob’s favorite, but he’s got to do it. He carefully helps Brice irrigate the wounds after he’s got the IV in place and the morphine administered. It’s a fairly nasty business. They’ve got to get the saline under the flaps of skin, washing out the worst of the debris before carefully replacing the skin. Brice cuts some of the sterile sheets so they’re appropriately sized, and they loosely wrap everything in place

“You okay to take him in alone, kid?”

“Yes, I’ll be fine.”

They load the victim into an ambulance, two more pulling up. Each remaining paramedic rides in with two patients. They’ve been at it for over an hour. Clean up onsite will take most of the morning. _That’s not my job anymore, though, thank god…_ Brice is waiting for him at the bay with half their equipment when he arrives at Rampart with a pair of victims, and Bob has the rest of it. They make quick work of resupplying, their efficiency practiced and easy. Roy and Johnny meet them there.

“Well, if I never hafta do that again, I’ll be perfectly happy,” Johnny says, “It’s not even ten, and I’m beat already.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Brice replies.

“Same,” Bob tells them, “but at least you didn’t have the degloving injury.”

“Ugh, they’re the worst! They’re just- They freak me out, man.”

“Yeah, they ain’t exactly my cup of tea, either.”

“True,” Roy says, “but ours is not to question why.”

Bob and Brice step out of the way, giving Roy and Johnny room to resupply. Watching them a moment, Bob says, “Fellas, I get the feelin’ this is gonna be one of those days.”

“ _Squad 16, are you available?_ ”

“Squad 16, available.”

“ _Squad 16, respond with Engine 16, cardiac trouble…_ ”

“Sounds like y’all are in for quite a day,” Gage smirks.

“Can’t wait… Squad 16, 10-4.”

Brice gathers up the equipment, and the two of them hurry out to their squad, packing up the boxes and racing to meet the engine at the next scene.

xXxXx

“To use vernacular I rarely use,” Brice says, “I’m beat.”

“I hear ya, kid… Jesus, if I get an hour of sleep, I’ll be happy.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Bob. We may get just that.”

Bellingham’s only response is an unintelligible grumble as he heads into the latrine. Stretching and groaning slightly at everything popping back into place, Brice follows him into the station and heads into the dorm. They’ve been running almost nonstop since the MVC that morning, and every run has required extra exertion. _We climbed stairs and rappelled out of windows and did CPR… I even had to chase someone._ Brice is almost too tired to take off his uniform and boots, but he somehow manages, Bellingham not far behind. Springs creak as Bellingham drops heavily onto his bunk, and Brice hears the rustling of clothing as he strips off his own uniform. Brice barely remembers to take off his glasses before the two of them are fast asleep. It’s well after midnight.

“ _Station 236, Station 128, Station 16, overturned truck on the on-ramp…_ ”

Quickly shoving his glasses on, Brice sits up and pulls on his bunkers, glances at his watch. _We got about ninety minutes of sleep._ Bellingham climbs into the passenger seat, allowing Brice to drive and lead the engine to the scene. The volume of the sirens is jarring to Brice’s sleep-deprived ears, sets an itch under his skin the adrenaline does not improve. Blue and red flash brightly at their destination, a row of streetlights helping to illuminate the accident. It looks like a typical tractor-trailer accident: the truck took the ramp too fast and rolled over. Brice has seen it plenty of times.

The two paramedics approach a police officer, asking who needs attention.

“Uh, I’d go look at the truck driver. He’s real shook up over this.”

“That makes sense,” Brice says, “An accident like this is a traumatic experience.”

“Especially an accident like this one,” the cop replies.

“How so? It looks like a simple rollover.”

“Well, it would be if the truck didn’t rollover onto a pickup.”

“What?”

The cop directs their astonished gazes to the back end of the trailer, the bed of a pickup barely visible, the cab obviously crushed. _There’s no way anyone’s alive in there._ As if sensing Brice’s train of thought, the cop explains, “We haven’t been able to get in there to see how many victims there are. Reckon that’s your job, fellas, gettin’ that trailer up off it and checkin’ for victims.”

“Yeah, s’pose it is,” Bellingham mumbles.

It’s certainly not a false statement. That will be their job, but for now they have to wait and tend the victim they have. Brice takes Bellingham’s elbow, says, “We need to check the truck driver,” and guides him back to the squad for equipment.

The truck driver is middle-aged, with a short dark beard peppered with grey, his hair close cropped. He shakes as though he’s cold, his eyes staring blankly at the wreck. Brice allows Bellingham to take the lead. He’s more suited to gentling agitated victims, his manner calm and friendly and patient. _My manner is too clinical for situations like this._ Brice is better in a crisis when things need to happen quickly and accurately, when feelings aren’t the most important thing. Right now, feelings are the only thing.

Bellingham quickly determines the man is largely unhurt but for some bumps and bruises, however, he is clearly in shock. His answers to Bellingham’s questions are monosyllabic when possible, his voice clipped and shaking. His eyes are wide and blank. Brice feels something uncomfortable crawl up his spine if he looks at the man’s eyes too long, feels his muscles itch under his skin. They’ll likely transport him to Rampart, though Brice isn’t sure what they can do for him there.

“I-I don’t-… I don’t know what happened,” he says at last, expression still blank, “Everything was- was fine and then-… I don’t know what happened.”

“It’s alright,” Bellingham soothes, “That’s just how it works sometimes, Accidents just happen and we can’t do anything to stop ‘em.”

“I-I-I coulda kept control of the truck-“

“Hey, don’t do that to yourself, man. You did all you could.”

“Wasn’t enough.”

“Sometimes it’s not… and that’s okay. It was just an accident.”

All three of them jump at the sound of screeching metal. Bellingham redirects the man’s attention elsewhere, but Brice looks on. The cab of the pickup is a crumpled heap, the roof essentially level with the bed. Brice’s stomach rolls faintly. _There’s no one alive in there._ Leaving Bellingham’s side, Brice moves to the truck, standing next to Wexler. The boy looks like he might be sick.

“Are- Are you really gonna look in there, Brice?” Wexler asks.

“Someone has to.”

Once he gets the all clear, Brice moves in, taking a deep breath before peering into the crumpled cab. He can’t really make out features or even limbs, only sees a mass of flesh and blood. He finally makes out the head and neck, and he strains down, reaching to feel for a pulse. There is none, not that Brice thought there would be. He simply goes to one of the cops and advises him, “Please call the coroner. There’s nothing we can do.”

He returns to Wexler’s side, absently trying to wipe his bloody hand on his turnout, this blood joining the blood of many others. Wexler’s eyes flit down to Brice’s blood-covered hand.

“How bad was it?” he whispers, “What-? What did he look like?”

Looking into the warm brown eyes wide with horror and fascination, Brice gives Wexler the only response he can think of, “I… I would rather not say, Danny.”

Wexler looks like he’s going to throw up, and Brice feels ready to throw up himself. He walks away from the scene, back toward Bellingham and the truck driver, but he realizes he doesn’t want to face the truck driver and be questioned about the dead man. His heart rate picks up. He simply chooses to retreat to the squad. _Bob can come when he wants, when he’s ready._ Brice cannot be near anyone else at the moment, no one but Bellingham.

“Craig, there you are,” Bellingham tells him, “I been lookin’ for ya for almost five minutes now.”

“I couldn’t come back.”

“To the truck driver? How come?”

“I couldn’t face him.”

“It was that bad, huh?”

“It was very bad, Bob. Very bad,” Brice replies.

Bellingham makes a soft noise beside him and reaches down, taking Brice’s hand in his own.

“You coulda asked me to check on the victim. I woulda done it.”

“I… I didn’t want you to see it… to see what he looked like,” Brice whispers, “I wanted to… I don’t know… I suppose I wanted to protect you.”

It’s a silly notion, that Brice could somehow protect Bellingham, but it’s a small price to pay for all the care he’s shown Brice. Bellingham gives his hand a squeeze, tells him, “Thank you, Craig. I appreciate it. Now, c’mon, let’s go back to the station and get some sleep, huh? That sound good?”

“Yes. That sounds good.”

They return to the station, quietly stripping off their bunkers and laying down. Brice’s heart hammers. He’s afraid to fall asleep, afraid to see nightmares of that nameless crushed victim. He lays on his side, facing Bellingham, and Bellingham does the same, offering him a soft smile, as if to say, ‘You’ll be alright. I’m here. You’re safe.’ It’s enough for Brice. His heart calms down. His fear ebbs away. A mix of peace and exhaustion pull him into sleep.


	28. So We Cry in Our Angry Protest, in Our Bitter Anguish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: major character death, strong language, (very) poor handling of grief
> 
> Honestly this is super sad and i should really apologize for all the sadness ~~but i'm not sorry~~
> 
> Follows with events in my fic [Just Round the Corner](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7216537)

“If we never hafta deal with bullshit like that again, it’ll be too soon,” Bob complains, “I mean, honestly, that man is a nuisance.”

“I agree, Bob.”

“That was… what? The fifth call from him this shift alone?”

“Hopefully the police will talk some sense into him,” Brice says, “Can the fire department get a restraining order against a person?”

“Who knows, kid…”

It’s so late it’s almost early as they head into Rampart, curious about the apparatus from 51s outside. They head to the emergency bay to stock up on some supplies from a previous run. Early and Dixie are there, both looking somber. When they get closer, Bob can see both of them have been crying. His stomach rolls, his chest tightening. He feels Brice falter beside him. Dixie comes out from behind the bay station and wraps her arms around Bob, so he holds her, asking, “Dix, what happened?”

She shakes her head against his shoulder, and Early answers for her, “It’s-… It’s Chet Kelly. He- He’s gone.”

Bob’s heart stutters, his arms tightening around Dixie, a lump rising in his throat. He sees Brice sway and grip the edge of the desk, letting out a choked, “How?”

“A ceiling collapsed on him and broke his femur, partially severing his femoral artery,” Early explains thickly, “I think it also damaged some internal organs and led to internal bleeding, too. He-… He was dead- dead on arrival. Everyone’s in there with him now.”

“We’ll, uh, we’ll wait for ‘em to come out,” Bob says, “They need time with him alone.”

Dixie lets go of Bob, telling him, “Johnny’s real broken up.”

“We all are.”

Brice is sitting behind the desk now, likely eased into the seat by Early, his expression blank. He looks numb. Bob wants to help but doesn’t know how. _Everyone deals with grief differently._ At that moment, the treatment room door opens, revealing everyone from 51s except Johnny, all their eyes red and glassy. Roy comes right to Bob, wrapping his arms around him, crying quietly into his shoulder. Bob holds him tight, tears in his own eyes. His hand cradles the back of Roy’s head as he murmurs, “I’m sorry… Jesus, Roy, I’m so sorry…”

“I can’t believe it,” Roy breathes, “I can’t believe he’s gone-“

Bob quietly shushes him. _He doesn’t hafta talk about that now._ After a few more seconds, Roy pulls away, wiping at his face, and says, “If you and Brice wanna go in and- umm, and see Chet, you can. I’m gonna get Johnny now.”

“We will, Roy… Again, I’m so sorry,” Bob tells him.

Johnny looks like Brice, numb and blank and glassy-eyed. _He looks lost… completely lost._ His heart goes out to them. Turning, he gently takes Brice by the arm, whispering, “C’mon, kid… let’s go in and say goodbye.”

There’s a beat before he stands, his movement almost robotic as he stiffly follows Bob into the treatment room. Bob is crying before he even realizes it. Chet lay on the gurney, eyes closed, skin a bluish white, one of his hands splayed over his chest. Stepping forward, Bob rests a hand on the cold forehead, choking down a sob. _This isn’t fair._ He won’t dwell on fair or unfair just now. He just says a silent prayer for the boy, hoping he’s safe in whatever afterlife he wanted to be in. Brice steps up beside him, reaching out and touching Chet’s hand.

Brice snatches his hand back as if burned and darts out of the room, the door banging loudly. Bob murmurs, “Bye, kid. We’re gonna miss ya,” leans down to press a kiss to the boy’s forehead, and follows Brice out of the room. Their equipment is still at the bay, so he quickly fills the supplies they need and returns to the squad. Brice is in the passenger seat, pale and shaking, still carefully expressionless.

At the station, the boy becomes distant. He retreats from Bob completely, and Bob lets him. He simply goes into the dorm and gently wakes Cap, telling him, “Me and Brice just come back from Rampart, and, umm… Chet Kelly from 51s died tonight.”

Cap swears quietly, says, “Tell everyone in the morning, Bob. Is Brice okay?”

“No.”

“Gonna check on him?”

“Not just now. I’m gonna leave him be for a bit. I think that’s best for now.”

“Okay… okay, but check on him later. I get the feelin’ this is gonna hit him hard.”

“Unfortunately, Cap, I think you’re right… I’ll let ya get some sleep.”

Sleep will not come to Bob, however. He’s almost hoping this is a crazy dream, some nightmare he’ll wake up from, but he knows it isn’t so. It just feels so unfair. Chet was young and cheerful and wonderful. He was so close with Johnny and his shiftmates. He was going to take the engineer’s exam this year. Bob drops into one of the dining chairs, a lump in his throat, his lip trembling. _This isn’t fuckin’ fair._ Letting his tears fall, he allows himself to cry, dropping his head into his hands. His sobs aren’t loud but nor are they quiet. They just are.

Brice seems to materialize out of nowhere and stands at Bob’s side. Long fingers card through his hair. Brice just pulls him into an embrace, Bob wrapping his arms around Brice’s middle, pressing his face into the lean torso, still crying. The young man just holds him, fingers carding through his hair and stroking his back, though he remains silent. _I wish I knew what was goin’ on in his head._

They stay like that for a couple minutes, until Bob is done crying. He looks up at Brice and releases him, patting him on the lower back. Then, Brice withdraws as quietly as he came, like he was disappearing into fog in the night. Bob doesn’t see him again for the rest of the night, not knowing where he’s hiding and too tired to go look for him. He just tells the other guys what happened to Chet and promises to pass on more information when it’s available. All three cry, Sauvageau most of all. (He’d worked with Chet when they both joined the department.) Brice is already gone when Bob leaves. His truck isn’t even in the lot.

Brice did something like this about a year and a half ago when Dorset died, just shut down and refused to talk to anyone until his emotions were ready to spill over. Only when the dam breaks will they know exactly how bad he’s affected. _Maybe if I give him some space he’ll come around a ‘lil quicker._ The boy also has Ivy and Rosie to look out for him, so if Bob doesn’t drop by until later, he won’t feel too bad. For now, Bob just plans on going home to sleep for a bit, and then he’ll give Roy a call in the afternoon. That should be enough time for everyone’s emotions to wind down.

xXxXx

Roy is tired, so very tired. He almost feels like he’s in the midst of a nightmare, one he desperately wishes he could wake up from but knows he won’t. Even in his darkest times, he could never imagine something like this happening. _We weren’t supposed to bury him like this._ They were all going to live forever. They were all going to stay in the department until they were too old and then they were going to find something to do where they could still see each other all the time. When the time came for someone to die, they would all be old and grey-haired and at least somewhat prepared for it to happen.

By no means was Chet supposed to be the first to die and certainly not like this, certainly not this early. Chet is only thirty. _No… he was thirty._ Tears fill Roy’s eyes for what seems to be the hundredth time today. Joanne has been avoiding both him and Johnny so far except for a few questions here and there. She and the kids went to a friend’s house about an hour ago, and Roy doesn’t blame her for wanting to escape the fog of grief permeating the house. Johnny is holed up in the guest room, has been since they got home in the morning, and Roy doesn’t quite have the heart to go in and check on him yet. Everything still hurts too much.

The phone rings… again. Roy doesn’t want to answer it again. He’s talked to too many people from the department today about arrangements and payments and services. He just doesn’t want to talk to anyone else. _And I’m gonna tell ‘em so._ Rising from the couch, he answers the phone with a sharp, “Roy DeSoto.”

“ _Roy, it’s Bob Bellingham._ ”

He actually gives a sigh of relief.

“Bob, it’s… It’s good to hear from you.”

“ _Everything alright? I mean, as alright as it can be anyway? Ya sounded kinda testy when ya picked up._ ”

“Been fieldin’ calls from the department all day, and it’s just- I don’t have any answers for them,” Roy tells him, “I’m sure Chet left that information with someone, probably Johnny, but I dunno for certain. Besides… it’s all a lot to deal with just now.”

“ _No, I understand. It sucks that these kinda decisions hafta happen so fast,_ ” Bob replies, “ _Maybe tomorrow’ll be better… again, as better as it can be._ ”

“Yeah, I was thinkin’ of takin’ Johnny back to their apartment tomorrow. Like I said, if anyone knows where Chet’s papers are, it’s Johnny.”

“ _He’s at your place?_ ”

“He’s in the guest room now. Damn near had a panic attack at the thought of goin’ back there, so I wasn’t about to force him. Don’t think he’s slept at all, either… hasn’t really cried at all. He’s, uh… he’s not takin’ it well, Bob.”

“ _Well, that’s to be expected._ ”

“I guess… doesn’t mean I have to like it, though.”

“ _No… no it doesn’t, Roy. He’ll be okay in a bit. Just gonna take some time._ ”

Roy hums in agreement, asks, “How’s Brice holdin’ up? I know he liked Chet.”

“ _Not too good… at least, that’s what I’m guessin’ since I haven’t seen him,_ ” Bob explains, his voice softening, “ _Even at Rampart, he started shuttin’ down, which he does when stuff like this happens. I’m used to it, of course, just… I worry about him. He’s a good kid, Roy. I’m gonna go check on him later. I figured he oughta have some space for a bit before I go hoverin’ over him like a-a mother hen._ ”

“That’ll be good for him. He shouldn’t be alone, not for a long time anyway.”

“ _Yeah… now lemme ask the most important question… how are you holdin’ up?_ ”

“As well as I can be, I suppose,” Roy replies, scrubbing at his face, “I mean-… shit… Chet’s part of the family. We-… We lost a-a family member, Bob… and he’s young. He was so- so young-… It’s not fair, Bob. It’s just not fair.”

“ _I know, pal. Believe me, I know._ ”

The line is quiet while Roy reins in his emotions, wiping away a few errant tears, and after a few moments, Bob speaks up, “ _Listen, Roy, I’m here for ya if ya need anything, okay? Anything at all, and that includes planning everything. I’ve done it before, so I can help ya navigate everything and all the paperwork. You fellas just call me if ya need help._ ”

“I will. Thanks, Bob… Don’t forget to take care of yourself too, okay?”

“ _You got it,_ ” Roy can hear the soft smile in his voice, “ _Same to you, pal._ ”

They hang up shortly after. Joanne and the kids come home. The sun sets. Johnny remains in the guest room, the lights off. Roy finally goes to him, softly calling his name. Johnny rolls over and looks up at him, and Roy’s gut twists at the hollow look in his brown eyes. He tries to ignore it, asks, “Did… Did you sleep at all, Junior?”

There’s a beat before he answers, “Umm… no. I can’t sleep.”

“Some sleep might make you feel better. I mean, nothin’s really gonna make this better, but at least-“

“No, Roy… I mean, I-I can’t sleep. I can’t go to sleep.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t… I-I’m scared. If I do go to sleep and I wake up and this is still real…”

Johnny lets his sentence hang, but Roy understands his meaning. He wishes this were all a horrible nightmare as much as Johnny does, but he recognizes that it’s real. With a sigh, Roy sits next to Johnny on the bed, quietly tells him, “Listen… Johnny, we need to go to your apartment tomorrow. We need- umm… We need to find Chet’s papers. I know he told you where to find them.”

He gets no response. If anything, Johnny simply glazes over as if unwilling to even consider such a thing. He doesn’t even respond to Roy’s touch, to hands rubbing his back and stroking his hair. Tears well in Roy’s eyes once more. _Please, Junior… I can’t lose you, too._

xXxXx

“Bob? Bob, what the hell is going on?”

Ivy steps put of her apartment, quickly approaching Bob, worry etched on her face. She continues, “Craig just came storming up the stairs this morning and went right in his place and slammed the door and won’t talk to me.”

“Yeah, he won’t answer the phone, either. That’s why I’m here.”

“What happened?”

“A fireman- uh… a good friend of ours was- umm, he died last night at a fire.”

“Oh, I’m sorry… explains his behavior, though. I’ve got a key to his place if you wanna break in,” she offers.

“I appreciate that, Ivy, but I’m hopin’ it won’t come to that.”

“Good luck.”

Bob turns back to Brice’s apartment door and knocks, calling, “Brice? Kid, come let me in! I just wanna check on you and make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine! Go away!”

“Just lemme see you.”

“No!”

“Please? I’ll go away if ya-“

“No!”

“Craig, if you don’t open the door, I’ll break in. All I wanna do is check that you’re okay and then I’ll leave ya alone, ‘kay?”

He waits, listening for movement inside. The locks click, and Brice appears in the doorway, rumpled and angry (and alive). Bob breathes a sigh of relief, tells him, “Kid, next time at least answer the phone. At least if ya hang up on me, I know you’re alive.”

“As you can see, I’m fine,” Brice replies, his voice brittle, “You promised to leave once you determined I was okay. You’ve done so. Now please leave, Bellingham.”

Ignoring the pang in his chest, Bob says, “Yes, but I was hopin’ you wouldn’t make me leave right away.”

“You were wrong. Leave.”

“Okay, okay… just… you okay to work tomorrow?”

“Yes. Goodbye, Bellingham.”

The door swings shut, the locks clicking once more. Bob almost doesn’t believe it just happened, but he’s really not surprised. He sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and he just turns to leave. If Brice won’t let him help, then he can’t help. That’s just a fact. _Guess I’ll just let him be for now._ He’ll see him tomorrow at the station, maybe not much, but he’ll see him.

That prediction turns out to be true. Brice hides away from everyone all day unless they’re on a run, and that’s the only time he speaks to anyone at all. It’s not unusual, nor is it unexpected. When Brice’s emotions get the best of him, he retreats: from friends, from coworkers, from himself. That’s his way. Bob decides not to push him, confident he’ll eventually open up, just as he usually does. The runs that day at least occur often enough that Bob can keep an eye on the boy. He seems okay so far, hasn’t screwed up, just acts robotic and closed off. For now, Bob can only keep an eye on him.

In the evening, Wexler answers the phone, announces, “Hey, Bellingham, it’s Roy DeSoto.”

_Forgot they’d be off today._ Bob gets to his feet, saying, “I’m gonna take it in the dorm,” making the trip across the bay, picking up the phone, and waiting for the click of Wexler hanging up the other line.

“Hey, Roy, what’s up?” Bob asks.

“ _We, uh… We got ahold of Chet’s papers and everything… Just- I guess I was wondering if ya had any advice for- umm, for the whole process._ ”

Bob has had to plan a few funerals in his life, including his parents’ and his niece’s, so he gives Roy the best advice he can. He tells him about setting up the service and making sure it’s paid for and dealing with the department. Roy just ‘hmms’ and ‘uh-huhs’ his way through it, probably taking notes. Once he’s done passing on information, Bob asks, “How’s Johnny doin’? He hold up okay back at his and Chet’s place?”

“ _Actually, he kinda broke down, but that was the first time he really cried,_ ” Roy explains, “ _Won’t say I didn’t cry myself but… How’s your shift?_ ”

“Oh, not bad. Just the usual shit, y’know. I’m holdin’ up okay.”

“ _And Brice?_ ”

“He’s tryin’ to run away from his feelings like always, but he’ll come around. I just gotta let him get this outta his system first.”

“ _Maybe I’ll send Johnny over to talk with him tomorrow sometime. We found-… Chet left somethin’ for you and Brice, for each of you. I was plannin’ on waitin’ ‘til the service, but it sounds like Brice could use it now._ ”

Bob blinks back tears, swallows around the sudden lump in his throat, manages, “Thank- Thank you, Roy. He was-… Chet was a good kid… real good.”

“ _Yeah. Yeah, he was real good._ ”

The two of them are quiet for a few seconds, and Roy clears his throat, telling Bob, “ _Well, I think the department is gonna do the service on Tuesday. Chet didn’t really want anything big, but you know how the department is. I think we’re gonna do somethin’ small at Cap’n Stanley’s place either that afternoon or the next day. You and Brice are welcome to come to that, too._ ”

“Thanks, Roy. I’ll let him know… and I’ll let everyone know about the service.”

“ _Alright, Bob. Thank you, by the way… for everything._ ”

“You’re welcome, Roy. I’ll see ya soon.”

Once they hang up, Bob goes into the kitchen to tell everyone there about the service, all four of them agreeing to attend. Brice is nowhere to be found. Bob conducts a thorough search of the station, and unable to locate the boy, he finally enlists Cap, asking him to call Brice into his office. Only then does he emerge.

“There ya are, kid,” Bob says, “Where have ya been? I was lookin’ for ya.”

“What do you want?” he asks, irritation clear in his voice; Cap leaves the office.

“Roy called to let me know about the service. The department is gonna have it on Tuesday, he’s pretty sure and-“

“I’m not going.”

“You’re- What?”

“You heard me. I said I’m not going,” he tells Bob firmly.

“Yeah, I heard what ya said, but I don’t believe it.”

“That’s hardly my problem.”

Everything about Brice right now is cold, his emotions and his expression and his tone, and it fills Bob with hot anger. He doesn’t want to be angry, but he just can’t help it. Bob takes a step closer to Brice. Brice stands his ground, expression unchanged, and Bob quickly understands that a legendary fight is coming with no way to stop it.

“It’s a funeral, Brice. Chet’s funeral. You have to go.”

“I don’t have to do anything I don’t wish to do-”

“He was your friend-“

“I am well aware of that-“

“-and so are Johnny and Roy-“

“I know who my friends are, Bellingham-“

“Then you need to fuckin’ act like it!”

“I don’t need you telling me what to do! I’m not going!”

“C’mon, would ya listen to yourself, kid-“

“I’M NOT A KID!”

The scream alone is enough to momentarily stun Bob. The fact that Brice physically shoves him is shocking. Brice is red in the face and breathing hard, still shouting, “I’m not! Stop it! Stop treating me like a fucking child, Bob! I’m an adult-“

“Then fuckin’ act like one instead of bein’ a brat!”

“What?”

“You heard me. You’re actin’ like a ‘lil brat. Don’t wanna do somethin’ so you’re throwin’ a fuckin’ tantrum!” Bob shouts and when Brice’s brow knits and he opens his mouth to reply, Bob rolls over him, “Don’t act like you’re not! There’s always shit we don’t wanna do but hafta do. You think I wanna go to the funeral? Huh? You think I wanna go say goodbye to this- this boy? No! But I’m goin’ anyway ‘cause Roy and Johnny and those guys need us there, and goddammit, Chet would want us there, too! If you wanna go ahead and act like a selfish fuckin’ brat, fine, but don’t expect me to make any excuses for ya, Brice!”

Bob does not wait for a response, instead storms out of the office, slamming the door behind him. Four pairs of stunned eyes follow him as he goes to the dorm, decides that’s too cloying, heads out to the parking lot. Tears fill his eyes and a few spill out. He doesn’t understand why Brice is being like this. Funerals are hard. Bob knows this as well as anyone, but it’s his duty to go as Chet’s friend, as someone who loves him.

The station is tense as they all turn in, no one speaking to one another as the lights go out. Bob manages to sleep despite his roiling emotions, which is good because the tones drop for a structure fire at about two in the morning. The address is in a rural area, but 16s makes good time, only beat by 127s. A large farmhouse and barn seem to be fine, but a smaller shack about fifty yards from the house is consumed with flame and thick smoke. A man with a garden hose is trying to put out the fire. A woman is frantically talking with 127s captain.

“Seems the shack is where her son and a friend live,” he explains, firemen working to get their own lines prepared to battle the flames, “She claimed he also used the place as a science lab, but we’re pretty sure he was cookin’ drugs in there… probably meth or somethin’ like that.”

“They still in there?” Bob asks.

“If they are, they’re probably not alive.”

Bob and Brice turn to look at the burning shack, and 127’s captain tells them, “You’re welcome to go check, but be careful, okay? If he was cookin’ meth, there’s gonna be some nasty shit in there… could make ya sick or could blow anytime.”

Everyone is acutely aware of wanting to avoid tragedy so soon after one has just occurred. Bob turns to speak to Brice, but the boy is already pulling on his air tank and mask, making his way toward fire. Swearing, Bob grabs his own SCBA gear and chases after him, grabbing his arm. Brice tries to throw him off, telling him, “Let me go, Bellingham.”

“No. What the hell are you doin’?”

“Going in to locate the victims.”

“Like hell you are,” Bob tells him firmly, “Not without me and not without an all clear.”

The smoke is thick and black and smells like chemicals even from where they stand, the flames cracking and popping at ominous intervals.

“There could be people dying in there-“

“They’re already dead, Brice-“

“-and someone needs to go in and make sure they survive-“

“No. We don’t hafta go in there now. It’s too hot in there!” he grips tighter as Brice tries to pull away and go charging in, “Christ, kid, do ya have a death wish?”

Brice’s broken shout of, “Just let me go!” is answer enough. There’s a loud, rapid popping. Firemen sprint away from the shack. Bob simply drags Brice to the ground, covering his body with his own and throwing an arm around the back of his own neck.

The explosion is deafening. Bob’s ears immediately start ringing. Debris pelts his back and legs and helmet, and he grits his teeth against the pain of the larger pieces, pieces large enough to break the skin with their impact. Brice squirms under him, but Bob stays firm, refusing to let him up until it’s safe. _I need him to be safe._

Someone comes and pulls Bob up, though Bob can’t hear if they’re saying anything through the ringing in his ears. He shakes his head roughly as if it could make the ringing go away. He’s sore, but that’s unimportant. _Is Craig safe?_ Turning to see where he is, Bob gives a sigh of relief to see Brice helped up, the boy hurrying toward him. The silvery eyes are wide and afraid. Bob tries to read his lips, sees them form his name.

“I’m fine,” he says, probably too loud, “I’m fine… Ears are ringin’ bad, is all.”

Brice leads him over to the squad, gently eases him into the passenger seat. The ringing is finally starting to ebb away, and he can actually hear Brice a bit now.

“Bob, are you hurt anywhere?”

“Not bad, nah… just a ‘lil banged up.”

“I want to take you to Rampart just in case,” Brice tells him.

While he’s initially inclined to turn him down, Brice’s behavior just prior to the explosion troubles Bob enough that he agrees in hopes he could confront Brice about it. Brice drives, fidgeting, clearly full of nervous energy, though he doesn’t speak. At Rampart, Dr. Morton checks Bob over, finding him to be alright save for a few cuts and bruises and some soreness. Brice sits in the corner for the whole exam, face a blank mask, leg bouncing rapidly. Bob deals with Morton’s small talk, just wanting for him to leave so he can talk with Brice.

Finally, Morton is called away to another patient. Bob pulls on his bunkers and turns to Brice, asking him, “What the fuck were you thinkin’ back there?”

“What?”

“At the scene. You were tryin’ to go chargin’ in there, all gung-ho and shit, when you knew damn well we couldn’t, that it was too dangerous for us to go in. I need to know why,” he tells him, trying to keep his voice calm.

The boy just blinks at him, eyes searching Bob’s face, before he stammers out, “I-I-I don’t know-“

“Please don’t bullshit me. Look, I’m here to help you. I wanna help you… but when you won’t let me, there’s nothin’ I can do and that kills me-“

“Please don’t-“ Brice blurts, ducking his head.

“I’m not gonna judge you or nothin’. You know that. Just… I’m worried about you, kid. I care about you and to see you strugglin’ like this tears me up inside… especially when ya try to hurt yourself like that.”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt myself.”

“Then what were ya doin’?” Bob asks.

“I don’t- I don’t know…”

Bob sighs, goes back to the table, and beckons for Brice to sit down. He whispers, “Craig, you do know. Please let me help you.”

Brice gives a loud, wet sniff, and Bob stands in front of him, gently takes his chin to tip his head up. His eyes are wet and red, his lip wobbling. Bob waits patiently for him to speak.

“Bob,” Brice finally chokes out, “I- I’m scared.”

“What scares you, babe?”

“I don’t wanna lose you-“

His words break off with a sob, fat tears pouring down his cheeks. He cries loud and hard, his whole body shaking. Bob releases his chin, snakes his hand around the back of Brice’s neck, lets his fingers knead muscles and play with hair and stroke over the bones of his neck. For a few seconds, he simply watches the boy cry, as if transfixed. He’s seen Brice cry before but not quite like this.

He cries with his whole body. His fingers scrabble over Bob’s chest. His shoulders hitch violently with every sob. His eyes are screwed shut. Bob pulls the boy in, carefully bringing Brice’s face to his shoulder, hand cradling the back of his head. He feels his own tears falling, presses his nose and mouth against the soft brown hair. Holding the boy close, Bob gently sways, rocking him slightly. He’s glad Brice is finally letting it all out, but it breaks his heart to hear him cry. He just holds him, soothes him, strokes his hair, anything to comfort him. Brice’s hands are fisted so tight Bob thinks his t-shirt might tear. _My poor boy… just get it all out._ It’s easy enough to press little kisses to his hair, to maneuver himself to kiss the boy’s forehead.

“I got ya, babe,” Bob whispers, “I’m right here… always will be…”

Brice nuzzles his face back into Bob’s neck. Bob drops a quick kiss to his temple, tells him, “Couple more minutes, and then we gotta head out. You’re okay.”

With a loud sniff, Brice slowly pulls away, his face wet and splotched with color, his eyes glassy. Bob murmurs, “Stay there,” and goes to wet a paper towel with cold water. He stands in front of Brice once more and gently wipes at his face.

“You’re gonna be okay, Craig.”

He gives a final chaste kiss to the boy’s forehead, gathers his turnout, and they slowly make their way out to the squad.


	29. Speak of Me in the Easy Way Which You Always Used

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the previous chapter
> 
> Warnings: Language, death from the previous chapter, grieving

Brice had actually slept well last night once he and Bellingham returned to the station, slept like he hadn’t in two days. Chet Kelly’s death had come as an awful shock, worse than Dorset’s death because genuinely knew and liked Kelly. _It’s hard to think of him in the past tense._ Kelly, after all, always seemed so full of light and energy, and now that’s all gone. Brice thought he packed all that grief away into a box, but it ate at him and ate at him until it was just too much for him to deal with. _But Bob was there… like always._

His partner picked him up and dusted him off and kissed his wounds, made him see that it’s okay to feel sad and to cry and to express his emotions. Finally at ease with his feelings, Brice was actually able to sleep last night at the station and today at home, he’s slept most of the morning. He’s still sad. There’s still a gnawing ache in his chest, but he can deal with it now, can go about simple tasks like brushing his teeth without feeling so tense it hurts.

The first thing he does once he’s fully awake is call Bellingham.

“ _Hey, kid, everything okay?_ ”

“Yes… as fine as it can be, I-I suppose. I’m… I’m calling to apologize, Bob.”

“ _For what?_ ”

“For my behavior yesterday. You were quite right. I was acting like a selfish brat,” he says sheepishly.

“ _Guess I oughta apologize, too. I shouldn’t’ve lost my temper like that. I know grief makes emotions run high, but I didn’t hafta get like that with you._ ”

“If it’s any consolation, I’m not upset with you, Bob. If anything, I’m grateful to you. You showed me how badly I was behaving… and I need to thank you for helping me last night.”

“ _Don’t worry about it, babe. I’m just happy you’re feelin’ a ‘lil better. Hey, would it be alright if I dropped by tonight?_ ” Bellingham asks, “ _Maybe I could stay the night and we could go to the service together._ ”

“Yes, I would like that very much.”

“ _Good. I’ll call before I come over._ ”

They say their farewells and hang up, and Brice sets about tidying up his apartment for Bellingham’s visit that night, pausing only for a quick lunch of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. His phone rings at about one-thirty. He’s surprised to hear, “ _Hey, Brice, it’s John Gage._ ”

Brice’s chest tightens slightly as he replies, “Gage, it’s good to hear from you. How are you?”

“ _Guess I been better. I was, umm… I was hopin’ I could drop in and talk to ya for a bit._ ”

“Of course. When would you like to come?”

“ _As soon as I could._ ”

“Then I’ll be ready as soon as you can arrive, Gage,” he says honestly.

Gage arrives about twenty minutes later. He doesn’t look well. His hair is mussed, his clothes rumpled, dark circles under his eyes. Brice ushers him in to sit on the couch and sits by him, waiting for him to speak. After a moment, Gage finally says, “He was my best friend.”

Brice watches him, sees him fidget, and he continues, “He was my best friend… and now he’s gone… and, umm, and I’m not doin’ too good, Brice.”

“That’s to be expected.”

“I just… I’d never thought about it, never- never even considered it. I had nightmares of him-… but I never thought it would actually happen. Never even crossed my mind. I thought-… I thought we were fuckin’ immortal, that we would live forever.”

“In hindsight, that may seem ridiculous, but I certainly know the feeling,” Brice says, “I think every one of us in the department feels immortal at one time or another.”

“It’s just-… we were gonna do so much. We had plans. We were gonna travel and see shit and-“

Gage’s voice falters. Something twists in Brice’s gut and he blurts out, “Did you love him?”

“Yes… but it wasn’t like I wanted to fuck him or kiss him or anything. Just… he was my friend and I loved him. It’s simple.”

“And also complicated.”

“I hear that.”

A brief silence falls over them before Gage speaks again, “Heard you might not be doin’ so good, either.”

“I wasn’t, no. I was very upset… and I behaved quite selfishly. You might not believe this, but Bob and I actually got into a shouting match,” Brice admits.

“Really? You and Bellingham really yelled at each other?”

“Yes. I’m sure the other men got quite an earful at the station last night.”

“What was it about?”

“He was upset with me because I was refusing to attend the memorial service. I didn’t want to go because I felt it would be too painful,” he says quietly, “I realize now this was ridiculous-“

“It’s not ridiculous,” Gage interrupts, “I felt the same way. It feels too permanent.”

“Exactly. And I felt that maybe if I didn’t go that none of it would be real.”

“Can I ask-? Did you love him, Brice?” Gage asks softly.

“I loved him as you did.”

Tired brown eyes look into his, so Brice adds, “He was kind to me when so many others haven’t been. He came to treat me as a friend… and I tend to cherish anyone who does so. He was a prankster and occasionally got himself into trouble and sometimes said or did the wrong thing, but… but Chet was a good man.”

“Yes… Yes, he was.”

Gage wipes at his eyes, and Brice swallows around the lump in his throat.

“Oh, Brice, I almost forgot… This is for you,” Gage produces an envelope, “Chet- umm… He had one of these for all of us at the station and ones for Mike and Marco… looks like he had one for you and Bellingham, too.”

With shaking hands, Brice takes the envelope and examines it. His name is on the front in Kelly’s hasty scrawl. It’s thick, too, filled with material but able to close. He opens it carefully, can’t hold back a gasp. There are photographs, actual photographs of him and Kelly at various functions, and there are a few of him and Bellingham, as well.

“Where… Where did he get all these?” Brice asks quietly.

“I don’t really know. Mighta talked to the photographers that are always floatin’ around. They always take way more pictures than they actually need. He mighta paid for ‘em or they mighta just gave ‘em to him if he asked. I’ll never know. Had a whole buncha me and him, and I dunno how got them, either… Awful good, though… awful good…”

Tears fill Brice’s eyes as he picks through the photos until he finds a folded piece of notepaper tucked in among the pictures. He unfolds it with trembling fingers, reads the scrawling note within:

‘ _Dear Craig (hope you don’t mind me calling you that), I’m hoping you get this under good circumstances, but unfortunately, I’m probably dead. It’s just the way things go. I hope I went with a bang like I told you I wanted to. If not, don’t tell me._

_‘I also hope you like all the pictures. I’d tell you how I got them, but I don’t want to take away the magic of it all. Seemed to me you probably wouldn’t have many, so here you go. This note is probably more important anyway. I’m just not very good with words, but neither are you, so I don’t feel bad._

_‘Basically, what I want to tell you is that you’re a good person. It doesn’t seem like much to say, but it’s true. You are a good person, Craig, and I’ve been lucky to know you. No matter how I felt about you at the beginning, now you’re my brother and I love you like a brother. I really do. I’m happy to know you and proud to call you my friend._

_‘Now I know you always put up a good front, but it’s okay to relax every now and again. Take off that mask around the people that care about you. Guys like Johnny and Roy will take care of you. Don’t be too sad, but if you are then don’t be afraid to show it, especially around your friends. I know Johnny’s going to need some help because he’ll be real sad even though I told him not to be, so try to help him for me. (he probably gave you this.) Lean on each other._

_‘Goodbye, Craig. Please don’t miss me too much, and remember that I love you, pal. –Chet.’_

Tears blur his vision, rolling hot down his cheeks and fogging his glasses, as he carefully folds his letter and places it back in the envelope with all the pictures. Looking over at Gage, he sees that his brown eyes are wet. Brice murmurs, “Oh, John,” and pulls him into an embrace, burying his face in the thin shoulder. Gage embraces him back, holding tightly. Both of them cry, not loudly and not quietly, but they just cry. It’s cathartic. Everyone else seemed to be mourning a boy, someone younger than they, but for Brice and Gage, he was their brother and friend, someone their age. They mourn a heavier loss than just the person. They’ve also lost some kind of innocence with the loss of their friend, that innocence that tells them they and their friends are indestructible.

They embrace for a couple minutes before gently pulling away from each other, though they don’t quite let go, with fingers lingering on forearms and heads close together and thighs brushing. Silence reigns over them as both try to rein in their emotions enough to speak. Gage wipes at his face once more, squeezes Brice’s forearm, and gets to his feet, asking, “Doin’ anything tonight?”

“Bob’s coming over in the evening. He’s going to spend the night and then we’ll go to the service together tomorrow.”

“That’s good… that’s good… say, if ya don’t mind me askin’… you and Bob-?”

“I do love him, yes,” Brice tells him, and it does feel good to tell someone else, “rather the same way you love Chet. No kissing or fucking involved.”

Gage snorts quietly, says, “It’s always wild to hear ya swear, man.”

“Why?”

“I dunno, it’s just funny ‘cause ya never really do.”

“Would you like me to swear more often?”

“Nah, it takes away the magic for when ya finally do. Just drop one every now and again for- for him. He’d appreciate it,” Gage tells him, “Well, I’m gonna head over to Roy’s. Reckon we’ll do the same as you and Bob. Now, there’s no uniforms tomorrow, remember. He didn’t want a big fuss from the department, especially not from us, so just come in civvies. Us from 51s and Mike and Marco are gonna get together at Cap’n Stanley’s just to- to have some drinks and share memories and all that. You and Bob are welcome to come.”

“It won’t be an intrusion?”

“It’s gonna be for all the people that loved him, so no, not as long as ya loved him.”

“I’ll let Bob know. I’m sure he’ll want to come,” Brice says.

“Good… oh, and I’ll leave Bellingham’s envelope here. Better for him to have it here. You’re, umm… You’re very lucky to have him.”

There’s an extra hint of sadness, and perhaps something like envy. _He lost his best friend and I still have mine._ Brice can’t find it in himself to be angry with him for it because he’s certain he would feel the same way. He simply says, “I know. Please, drive safe to DeSoto’s.”

“I will… See ya tomorrow.”

Gage drops the envelope on Brice’s small kitchen table, and with a quick wave, he leaves the apartment. Bellingham calls about an hour later, offering to come over with dinner, and Brice agrees. He tells him nothing of the envelope. _It will make a nice surprise._ He itches to know what Bellingham’s letter says, but Gage hadn’t asked what was in Brice’s, hadn’t divulged what was in his own. It’s a private thing, of course, whatever final message Kelly left for each man. Brice resists the temptation.

Bellingham shows up around six with an overnight bag and some containers of food.

“Terrie made a big dinner last night apparently,” he explains, “I was there this afternoon just to let her know what happened and let her know I was comin’ here and well-… here’s the result. So I hope you like chicken pot pie.”

“I do. It sounds good.”

“Great. I’ll go in and heat everything up, and we can eat in about half an hour.”

He goes in and sets up the kitchen. Brice is glad for some innocuous conversation, something to alleviate the gloom of speaking about the recently dead. It carries them well through dinner, the sky darkening outside. Brice puts the dishes in the sink for later, tells Bellingham plainly, “John Gage was here earlier.”

“Oh yeah? How’s he doin’?”

“As well as expected… which is not particularly well. He lost one of his closest friends, someone he loved very much. I don’t know if he even said Chet’s name once while he was here.”

“Sometimes it’s harder for people when it first happens. Saying the person’s name can make it more real or somethin’ like that. He’ll come around soon enough.”

“If you say so. Also, he brought something for you, Bob.”

“For me?”

“Yes. Apparently, before he- well… Chet left several people envelopes. He left one for each of us,” Brice tells him, “I’ve already opened mine. Yours is here…”

He picks it up off the table and walks back into the living room, handing it to Bellingham. From what Brice can see, it’s much the same as his own. They even have many of the same photos. Bellingham smiles as he looks at everything, his lip trembling, his eyes wet. He finds his letter and pulls it out to read it, soon covers his mouth with his hand. It seems about as long as Brice’s, and Bellingham takes a long time to read it, tears spilling from his eyes.

“Roy said Chet left somethin’ for each of us, but I never expected-… never thought… Where in the hell did he get all these pictures?” Bellingham asks thickly.

“I’m not sure, and neither was John. He speculated but couldn’t be certain. There are usually photographers at official department events or news photographers at scenes… and many firemen have cameras, also. Chet probably asked around for photographs and either purchased them or was gifted them,” Brice explains, “He could be quite persuasive when necessary.”

“Yeah, that he could be. This is-… Y’know, I’m gonna miss that ‘lil shit.”

“We all are. Oh, and John gave me more information about the service…”

The rest of their night passes quietly. They watch television and listen to the radio. They lean on each other, emotionally and physically, first lounging on the couch and then in Brice’s bed. Bellingham’s warmth is comforting, helps calm some of Brice’s raging emotions. He just presses against the broad chest, head ducked under Bellingham’s chin. Tomorrow will be hard, but for now, they can just bask in each other.

xXxXx

The service was hard. Johnny feels drained. He’s exhausted, but he’s glad for the company here at Cap’s house. It’s much easier to be around his close friends rather than random people from the department. _These guys understand me. They know._ Cap’s house is comforting, is familiar and warm and full of good memories. Everyone is quiet, but Johnny kind of prefers it that way just now.

Hooper and JT don’t stay very long. Perhaps they don’t feel welcome there because they didn’t know Chet very well, but Johnny hopes that isn’t the case. He doesn’t quite have the energy to stop them, though. He’s also currently sandwiched in between Roy and Cap, so he can’t really move even if he wanted to… which he doesn’t. Besides, there’s a sort of comfort in grieving with others, in sharing grief. It begins to ease the great weight and ache in Johnny’s chest. Not enough, of course, not nearly enough…

He feels like there’s a hole inside him, where something had been ripped away that was part of him. There’s a raw and bleeding wound in its place, a yawning chasm that hasn’t remotely begun to heal and feels like it never will. He knows that’s ridiculous. All wounds must heal, but for now that seems far-fetched. _That’s normal. What I’m feeling is normal._ It feels better to think of it that way.

_I’m tired._ Grief is exhausting. His whole body aches from tension, his eyes sore from crying, his mind overwhelmed from making decisions and fielding sympathy from people who barely knew his friend. Johnny just wants to go home and sleep for a month. His friend wouldn’t want that, though. (Because, oh, does it hurt to even think his name.) He would want Johnny to go back to work as soon as possible, to quit grieving, to remember him with laughter, but it feels so impossible at the moment.

The breeze is cool, just right for early March. Johnny’s grateful to Roy and Cap for bracketing him. The exhaustion has ruined his internal temperature gauge, and he’s always cold now. As if sensing this thought, Roy tightens his arm around Johnny’s shoulders, gently rubbing his arm. Mike and Marco are almost on top of one another, arms around each other and their fingers twined, Mike sitting between Marco’s legs on the deck steps. Brice and Bellingham are so close that Brice is almost in Bellingham’s lap, one of Bellingham’s thick arms wrapped around his young partner as if to protect him somehow.

Envy seizes his heart once more, just as it had yesterday when he left Brice’s apartment, feeling dangerously close to hate. It feels unfair that his friend was taken away, that he should be so sad and everyone else can still have their friends. They don’t have to be lonely anymore, and now Johnny is going to be lonely one from here on out. He’s struck by a sudden thought.

“They’re going to replace him.”

Johnny’s voice is croaking and disused. Roy replies, “They have to, Junior.”

“They’ll send someone good,” Cap says, “I’ll make sure of it.”

“But it won’t be him.”

There’s a brief silence before Marco agrees, “You’re right, Johnny. It won’t be Chet… so you can’t treat the new guy like he’s meant to replace Chet. You didn’t treat Hooper like he was supposed to be Mike, or JT like he was supposed to be me. It’s like he transferred-“

“But he didn’t transfer!”

“We know that,” Mike tells him, “and it’s not exactly the same, but sometimes thinking like that can help. I know I’m not exactly a shining example of handling grief well, but I’ve done it a few times. Sometimes ya have to think of things differently to get through it all. It doesn’t change what happened. It just makes it easier to deal with. There’s no shame in that.”

Johnny falls silent, leans back against Roy. He’ll heed his friends’ advice tomorrow. Right now, he’s too tired. Shortly after that, Brice and Bellingham announce they’re leaving. Bellingham pulls Johnny to his feet and gives him a tight hug. Brice’s embrace is a bit looser, but it’s more of a balm on that ragged open wound. When Brice pulls away, his eyes are wet and silvery, looking into Johnny’s very soul, and he says, “Please call me if you need anything, John.”

“I will. Thank you, Craig.”

They leave together, and soon after, Johnny asks Roy to take him home. Back at Roy’s house, Johnny retreats into the guest room, curls up on the bed, doesn’t even bother to undress. Roy takes care of him, carefully removing his shoes and manhandling him out of his jacket.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Roy murmurs, stroking Johnny’s hair, “Everything’s gonna be okay.”

“Don’t feel like it.”

“I know… and it won’t for a while… but it will be okay. I promise.”

Johnny closes his eyes against a fresh onslaught of tears. _I don’t wanna forget him… I can’t forget him._

xXxXx

Brice and Bellingham sit together in Bellingham’s apartment, Brice not quite willing to be home alone. Today had been very draining, so much sadness and grief filling the air, so much pretending to be kind to people who hate him. They’re simply lounging on the couch. Bellingham is engrossed in a book of some sort. Brice lays across the couch with his head in Bellingham’s lap, just thinking.

Mortality has never hit him quite so hard as it has today, as it has in the last few days. He’d never particularly considered his own death before. It was always something that would happen far off in the future. He would be old, very old, so he wouldn’t need to worry about it before then. Of course, other young men in the department have died before now, like Dorset, but Brice wasn’t very close to any of them. Those deaths really only made him consider Bellingham’s mortality. This death, Chet Kelly’s death… this one makes him think.

“Bob?”

“Hmm? All good?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Just-… do you remember telling me some time ago about the things you want to do before you die?” Brice asks.

“I think so, yeah. I said I wanted to see the leaves change in the mountains.”

“And you want to see the flowers bloom in the desert when the rains come.”

“The super bloom, yup. What brings all this up, kid?”

“You asked me what I wanted to do before I die.”

“And you weren’t sure,” Bellingham replies.

“I wasn’t before, no, but-… but I’ve been thinking about it the last few days. I suppose I’ve been sort of forced to. Bob, I want to see a total solar eclipse.”

“Okay, then we’ll go see a total solar eclipse.”

“What if we have to travel?”

“We’ll travel.”

“And I want to see a rocket launch. I never got to see one when I lived in Florida,” Brice says, just letting his thoughts flow out, “And I want to visit the battlefield at Gettysburg… and I want to see Old Faithful in Yellowstone.”

“We can do all of that, Craig,” Bellingham smiles, “Just say the word. Y’know, I’ve always wanted to see the Northern Lights, too.”

“So do I. And-…”

“What? C’mon, tell me.”

_But it’s embarrassing._ It’s one of those wishes Brice has kept locked up for a long time, something he’s always been sure wouldn’t come to pass so he’d ignored it. Bellingham smiles so warmly, however, that Brice can’t keep it in anymore. He says simply, “I-… I would like to dance with someone.”

“Is that all? We can take care of that right now.”

“Now?”

“Sure. I can just put on a record, and we can dance all ya want,” Bellingham tells him, “It would be my pleasure.”

“Have you danced before?”

“A few times. Went to a couple school dances. You never have? I mean, I figured ya never went to prom or nothin’ but I thought maybe ya woulda danced with Ivy.”

“No, I never have… but it seems like it might be nice.”

Bellingham carefully pushes Brice up off his lap and goes to look through all his records. Brice remains on the couch, watching his partner, wondering why he told him that little white lie. He’s danced only once, and he hesitates to call it that. He was with Gage and Kelly at their apartment, having been plied with food to come over for a hockey game. Hockey isn’t a sport he knows much about, but apparently Kelly had talked Gage into watching and Gage really enjoyed it. Brice figured it would be fun to spend time with them when they always say they should.

He had a lot of fun. Hockey was very interesting, and he quickly got into it despite knowing very little about the sport. Both Gage and Kelly yelled at the TV and cursed the officials and cheered when the Los Angeles Kings scored a goal. Brice even yelled once or twice himself. When the final horn sounded and the Kings had won, Gage turned off the TV and turned on the radio. An upbeat song was playing. Laughing, Kelly stood and pulled Gage in, doing a silly dance and singing to him, which caused Gage to laugh in turn. The sight made Brice smile.

Kelly let go of Gage shortly after, but then he turned his attention toward Brice. Brice tried to wave him off, not wanting to be embarrassed. Kelly was having none of it. He pulled Brice to his feet and brought him in close, one hand on his waist and the other clasping Brice’s. Heat rose in Brice’s face, but he continued to smile, found Kelly’s goofy grin and bad singing and ridiculous dancing endearing. _That was a good night._

Brice fights off a wave of sadness, focuses on Bellingham. He seems to have the record he wanted and places it on the turntable.

“Really? Bobby Darin?” Brice smirks.

“Surprised you even know who this is, kid.”

“I’m not a child, Bob. I’m almost thirty.”

“Ugh, that makes me feel old. I’ll be forty in a month. Forty. You believe that?”

“You don’t look a day over thirty-eight.”

“Thanks… ya ‘lil shit.”

He’s smiling, though, and with a grumbled, “C’mere,” he helps Brice to his feet. Heat blooms in Brice’s cheeks as Bellingham settles a hand on his waist, the other clasping one of Brice’s. Brice places his free hand on Bellingham’s bicep. The next song fades on, one Brice is more familiar with.

“ _It’s far beyond a star / It’s near beyond the moon / I know without a doubt / My heart will lead me there soon…_ ”

Warmth fills Brice’s body, pleasant and comfortable. He just feels calm and at peace like he hasn’t in days while they gently sway in Bellingham’s living room. Brice presses close to his partner. _I love him so much._ This is a memory he wants to keep forever. He concentrates on every little feeling: Bellingham’s calloused hand holding his, the rise and fall of Bellingham’s chest against his, the barely there vibrations of Bellingham’s soft humming. He lets the peace take over.


	30. Home is Wherever I'm With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: some gruesome injuries, blood, some language

“What did C-shift do yesterday? I thought they said they were busy!”

Bob turns. Brice is scowling at the fridge.

“What’s wrong, kid?”

“The fridge is completely empty! I mean- Look at this!”

Sure enough, the only items in the Station 16 fridge are a quarter of a gallon of milk, a sliver of a stick of butter, one carrot, and a Chinese takeout container Bob suspects is nowhere near full. Bob stands back and says, “Yeah, that’s pretty empty.”

“The freezer is empty, too. I can’t believe this. We’ve never done that to any of the other shifts. We always keep the fridge stocked and- Hey! Hartley, why is the fridge empty?”

The lineman pauses, says, “Huh? Oh, I guess we just didn’t get the chance to go shopping.”

“But you had time to eat everything?”

“To be fair, it was already empty when we got here, so we got takeout.”

Bob can’t stop a snort of laughter. Brice looks like a disapproving parent, standing there by the empty fridge with a hand on his hip. _It’s kinda adorable, honestly._ Hartley just shrugs, “Call B-shift if you’re pissed. They’re the ones who left it empty for us. Only thing we had time to get was milk and I had to run up the street to get it. Anyway, I gotta go. I gotta take my mom to the doctor’s.”

Brice stares after him as he leaves, not quite glaring, and as soon as Hartley is gone, Brice says, “I’m calling Cooper.”

“Really? Over an empty fridge?”

“Yes. It’s rude.”

“Don’t call Cooper over this.”

“You’re right,” Brice says, reaching for the phone, “I’m going to call Captain Katsoros.”

Bob intercepts him, saying, “No. Don’t call anyone, Brice. Look, it’s not that big a deal. Sometimes things like this just happen. People forget to do shit. At least this is just the first time, but if it happens again, we’ll confront ‘em over it.”

“I’m supposed to make dinner tonight, Bob.”

“I know ya are. We’ll just go to the store and pick up what ya need later, ‘kay?”

After a little huff, Brice nods, agrees, “Okay… Okay, that should be fine.”

It’s nice to see him worked up over something so ordinary as an empty fridge. The last few months have been hard on everyone, but things are slowly getting back to normal. _And normal is okay._ Bob gently ushers Brice out of the little kitchen and into the bay to check on their supplies, which sets off another round of huffing when he finds those insufficient, too. It’s easy enough to get him back on track, though, to keep his annoyance at bay, especially with their new distraction.

Shortly after Chet’s death, while Bob and Brice were on a run, they found no real emergency that had to be rushed to Rampart. What they did find was a scraggly brown cat with a broken leg that Brice was convinced wouldn’t survive much longer without a visit to a vet, and Brice’s tear-filled eyes were the only persuasion Bob needed. So they wrapped it up in a blanket and rushed it to the vet, who said the leg needed to be amputated. Brice quickly replied, “Do whatever has to be done. I’ll pay the bill.”

A week later, they returned to pick up the cat, now spayed and with three legs. Neither could keep it in their apartment, but the firehouse (after agreement from all shifts) was fair game. If other stations could keep a dog, why couldn’t they have a cat? She trots over to Bob and Brice while they sit in the bay. _Boy, she looks rough._ She’s still scruffy looking, with her three legs and a chunk missing from one ear and with a kink in her thick tail. The cat gives an insistent rasping meow, demanding attention. Brice looks over at her, smiles, obediently scratches her ears, and she starts up a chirruping purr.

That’s why Wexler insisted on calling her ‘Chewie’ after a character in that ‘Star Wars’ movie that came out last year. Bob took some of the nieces and nephews to see it once or twice. Brice and Wexler saw it six times, so Brice readily agreed to the name. Chewie quickly took over the station. _She’s in charge, that’s for sure._ Brice gently scoops her up, asking, “Chewie, did you have breakfast yet? Let’s go ask around…”

_And that cat loves him._ Brice is the only one who can pick her up, the only one she’ll sleep with, the only one she follows around. Following them into the kitchen, Bob watches Brice go into the cabinet where they keep Chewie’s cat food, hears him say, “At least they didn’t run out of your food, Chewie. That would’ve been really bad.”

There’s another rasping meow. Bob gives a huff of laughter, just watching his partner fawn over the cat.

“ _Squad 16, respond to the call for a gunshot wound…_ ”

Cap passes Bob the address, one in a nicer part of town, one not typically plagued by GSWs. The police are already there, the scene secured, so Bob and Brice go right in. A woman sits on the couch in handcuffs, her expression triumphant. When she sees the two paramedics, she proudly declares, “My two-timing, soon-to-be ex-husband is in the bedroom. He’ll live, but he won’t be sleeping around behind someone’s back ever again.”

A cop steps up, telling them, “Follow me,” and leads them both up a grand staircase and into an ornate bedroom. A man lies on the floor, clearly in agony, his groin covered in blood. _Oh, shit…_ They both carefully approach the man, Brice taking the lead, asking, “Sir? We’re paramedics for the LA County Fire Department. I need to ask you some questions, okay?” while Bob sets up the biophone and calls, “Rampart, this is Squad 16. We have a male victim, age approximately forty-five, with a gunshot wound to the groin. Stand by for vitals.”

“Sir, do you know how many times you were shot?” Brice asks firmly.

“T-Two.”

“Do you know where you were shot?”

“Yes! She- She shot my dick off!”

“Were you shot anywhere else, sir?”

“No, I-I don’t think so…”

“Bellingham, pulse is 140, respirations 32, BP is… 130/90. Appears to have lost about two units of blood but is awake and coherent.”

“…10-4, Rampart. Brice, start an IV with Ringer’s and 5 mg MS IV push. Try to bandage the wound if possible. Transport as soon as possible.”

Bob knows that it’s damn near impossible to bandage someone’s groin, and he can only imagine what it looks like. _Probably looks like fuckin’ hamburger._ The thought makes him shudder, his stomach giving a warning roll. He swallows against it. Brice is working diligently on the patient, IV at the ready. Steeling himself, Bob goes over to assist, offering to do the IV so Brice could try to stem the bleeding. Brice doesn’t seem to relish that particular task, but someone has to do it, and Bob is not above pulling rank in this case.

Thankfully, Brice relents, telling Bob, “Hand me some pressure bandages,” and carefully cutting away the victim’s trousers. Bob tries not to look. He really does… but he just can’t help himself. His regret is immediate. The victim’s genitals are destroyed, no longer resembling anything remotely like a penis and testicles. It’s worse than hamburger, but Bob has no words to describe it. Brice’s movements are almost mechanical. He’s good at temporarily shutting off his emotions for a short time in order to get the job done. They can always unpack what happened later when they have time.

For now, Brice is efficiently trying to cover everything and keep it from bleeding much more. _He’s good… real good._ The morphine has quieted the victim quite a bit. He no longer writhes and groans, just expresses mild discomfort now. When the cop who led them up returns with two ambulance attendants and their gurney, they quickly load the victim up and take him out to the ambulance, Brice climbing in with him.

“How is he?” Bob asks when they reunite at Rampart.

“It doesn’t look good. He’ll probably need reconstructive surgery at some point, but until then he’ll be peeing into a bag,” Brice replies bluntly.

“They can reconstruct that?”

“Bob, given enough time, I’m sure they can reconstruct anything.”

Wexler accosts them when they return, begging for the story of what happened, though he pales when he hears it. Everyone else does, too.

“It was very unpleasant for everyone involved,” Brice says, “It looked awful. It looked a lot like-“

“I think that’s enough, kid. C’mon, let’s write that grocery list…”

xXxXx

Danny offers to help Brice make dinner in the evening. He likes Brice. He likes talking to him and hearing what he has to say. He’s a good sounding board for any problems. Besides, Brice had been kind of upset that morning because of the empty fridge, and Danny just thinks it would be nice to help him. His offer does get a funny look, but he doesn’t get rebuffed.

They just chat while they work. It feels normal. Normal is good. Things had not been normal for quite some time after the death of Chet Kelly, a lineman at 51s. Danny had only met him a few times but he’d always seemed nice. Brice had been awful broken up over it. _We all were. It was sad._ Danny doesn’t want to dredge up bad memories, but he does have a question for Brice.

“Can I ask you somethin’?”

“I suppose so, Wexler.”

“It’s, uh… It’s about John Gage at 51s.”

“Go ahead.”

The paramedic is a bit more tense, but Danny presses on, asking, “I wanted to know how he was making out with Tommy Pontecorvo. I know him, so-… well, I’m just curious.”

“Why would they not get along?” Brice replies.

“Well… I guess it could be hard to- to move on, maybe. I know Gage and Kelly were awful close, so he mighta just felt resentful toward Pontecorvo ‘cause he’s there and Kelly isn’t. I don’t blame him if that’s how it is. I just-… It might happen, that’s all.”

Brice is quiet for a long moment, and Danny is worried he’s just offended him in some way.

“I suppose,” he finally says, “that Gage may have felt resentful at first. It makes sense. He lost someone close to him and now he has to work with someone completely different filling such a familiar position. I never experienced loss in quite the same way, though my mentor left from my first station… he was an engineer. I remember feeling very upset and resentful when Crawford left, though he only took another job. I can call him or visit him whenever I wish… John can’t call or visit Chet.”

Danny mumbles an agreement, struck by Brice’s use of their given names, and a not quite comfortable silence reigns over them for nearly half a minute before Brice speaks again, his voice quiet, “But Gage is treating Pontecorvo well. I spoke with him not long ago and he had only good to say about your friend. He’s fitting in well at 51s.”

“Good… I’m glad to hear it, Brice.”

The silence that follows is much more agreeable. The two of them work together easily, not quite so easily as Brice and his partner do, but it’s not bad. Danny likes Brice and always has. He’s weird and has odd quirks and sometimes says strange things, but he is a good man. _I might think he’s kinda cute, too, but that’s neither here nor there._ The crush is nothing, really. Danny often gets crushes, falls hard and fast all the time, falls for all kinds of people. Brice is good and kind and a little strange and rather good-looking, just Danny’s type. Out of curiosity, he asks, “Brice? Are you, uh, seein’ anyone?”

“Seeing anyone?”

“Yeah. Like, ya got a girlfriend or anything?”

“No, I don’t have a girlfriend or anything,” Brice replies, “I actually never have.”

“You’ve never had a girlfriend?”

“Nope. Not one.”

“Huh… Ever had a boyfriend?” Danny asks.

Brice fixes him with a distrusting look. Danny simply shrugs, says, “Just curious. I mean, doesn’t bother me one bit if you’re queer. That’s just how some people are.”

“Are you?”

He shrugs again, “Guess so. I just kinda fall for personality without really worryin’ about what’s all attached. I like nice people… and if they happen to look nice, it doesn’t hurt.”

A small smile creeps onto Brice’s face. _It’s a nice smile._ He mixes up the sauce ingredients in the pan, tells Danny, “I wouldn’t know what that’s like. I’ve never fallen for anyone, Wexler.”

“Really? I always figured- well, I probably shouldn’t say.”

“No, please.”

“Well- and I don’t like to be nosy or nothin’- but… I dunno… I guess I’ve always kinda thought you and Bellingham were together.”

“We’re not… not in a traditional sense, anyway,” Brice explains, “There’s nothing physical between us, nothing romantic. We just… We’re close. That’s all.”

Warmth flutters through Danny’s chest, happiness at knowing Brice trusts him enough to tell him all that. Still, Danny is a curious sort of person, and he can’t help but ask, “Would you ever want something like that? Something romantic or physical?”

“With Bellingham?”

“With anyone.”

“With you, perhaps?”

His tone is light, a smirk on his lips and his eyebrows slightly raised. Danny doesn’t even blush, just tells him, “Hey, it was worth a shot, Brice.”

“Yes, I suppose it was,” Brice agrees, “but I’m afraid it was for nothing. I’m perfectly happy as I am, happy the way things are.”

“Then I’m happy for you.”

Brice’s smile is genuine, and he doesn’t have to speak for Danny to hear the ‘thank you.’

xXxXx

“Hey, Ivy… could we talk for a bit?” Rosie asks.

Something like fear flutters in Ivy’s chest, but she swallows it down. Rosie sits next to her on the couch, says, “Now, don’t freak out. It’s nothin’ bad I wanna talk about. I still love you the same as I always have, so you never have to worry about that.”

“Well, that’s at least a good way to start, baby.”

“You looked a ‘lil freaked out, so I figured I’d nip it in the bud. All I wanted to talk about is… I think it’s time we moved.”

“Moved? Why?”

“This apartment is nice… but it’s kinda small. Between the two of us, I think we could get a pretty nice house, somethin’ we could grow into, maybe get some pets… I dunno… I just think we’re ready for that, sugar,” Rosie tells her softly.

“But… But we’ve been here so long. It just feels like home.”

“Home is wherever we’re together. We should at least try.”

Ivy takes Rosie’s hand and leans in, admits, “Guess I’ve kinda been thinkin’ about it, too. I dunno, I’ve just gotten so comfortable here… and Craig’s here. He doesn’t have too many friends and I don’t want him to think we’re abandoning him.”

“We can talk with him and keep him updated so he doesn’t feel that way. And even though we feel comfortable here, sometimes you gotta step outta your comfort zone. Just… I think it’s time we do this… y’know, while we’re young and in love.”

Ivy snorts at that last bit. _Yeah, we are young and in love, aren’t we?_ Rosie does make a convincing argument, one Ivy’s been having with herself for a few months now, and she’s thankful Rosie bought it up first because Ivy keeps talking herself out of it.

“We’re probably overdue for a bigger place,” she comments, “and having a cat or a dog might be nice… maybe a garden.”

“Maybe some kids?”

“Eh, don’t get carried away there, babe.”

Rosie laughs, says, “We probably oughta just start with a cat or a dog first.”

“Then I guess we better start lookin’ at real estate.”

“Yeah, I reckon we should, sugar.”

xXxXx

“ _Station 16, respond to the motor vehicle accident with injuries…_ ”

They all jerk awake, the lights coming on as the tones sound. Brice quickly grabs his glasses before swinging his legs over his bunk to pull on his turnout pants. A car accident this late is usually bad, but at least this one is in a residential area. The victims hopefully haven’t been there too long. In rural areas, they sometimes don’t arrive until an hour after the fact. He and Palmer both check the map, picking the best route before heading to the apparatus. Bellingham waits for him in the passenger seat.

“How far?”

“Only about five minutes.”

He hums in response. Brice stifles a yawn halfway there. At the scene, they find a sedan had plowed through a picket fence into a thick hedge. The police are there, one officer speaking with the homeowner while the other tries to keep back the neighbors. Brice and Bellingham hurry over to the car. Sauvageau is already there, looking in, and he calls, “Two victims inside! One male and one female! Lotta blood on the female!”

“Bob, we need two C-collars!” Brice says, “Wexler and Palmer, get the backboards!”

He grabs the drug box and the biophone while Bob gets the C-collars and IV box. Thankfully, the car doors are easy to open, the frame of the car not badly damaged. The windshield is shattered, pieces of wood from the fence scattered everywhere. Both victims are in obvious pain.

“Brice, you take the woman. I’ll take the male victim,” Bellingham tells him, then calls, “Palmer, come take over the biophone!”

The engineer hurries over. Brice focuses on his patient, saying, “Ma’am, I’m going to check your neck and put this collar on you, okay? Don’t move… No, don’t move. I’ll do everything.”

Nothing necessarily feels like it’s out of place, but he feels better putting the cervical collar on her. _Better safe than sorry._ He checks her back next, carefully helping her sit up and palpating her spine. Again, nothing feels out of place. Brice moves on, asking, “Ma’am, can you tell me where it hurts?”

“My arm!”

“Which arm?”

“My- My left arm!”

That is the one with the bloody sleeve, and bloody might be an understatement. It’s blood-soaked, saturated and wet and almost black. His stomach rolls slightly, but he forces it down, quickly switching off his emotions until later. She screams when he palpates it so he stops. What he did feel was not promising, however.

“Ma’am, are you hurt anywhere else?”

“I- I don’t know…”

“Alright, we’re going to get you out of the car, and then I need to get a closer look at your arm, okay? Did you lose consciousness at any point?”

“No… no…”

“Okay, then I’ll call the hospital and ask them if we can give you some painkillers, but I can’t make any promises. Wexler, come help me over here!”

The lineman is there in an instant, spineboard at the ready. She screams again when Brice handles her left arm, but there’s nothing he can do about it. He has to remove her from the car. Bellingham’s patient is already out and on a backboard, Bellingham working diligently with Sauvageau assisting him and Palmer relaying information for that victim. Brice and Wexler set the female victim nearby so Brice can more easily communicate with Palmer.

He quickly cuts the woman’s blood-soaked sleeve off and finds his worst fears are confirmed. Her arm is all but amputated at the bicep, hangs on by just a bit of muscle and skin. Brice simply cuts off her shirt, telling Palmer, “Tell Rampart our second victim is a female, age about thirty-five, with a partial amputation of the left arm, mid-humerus. Vitals to follow.”

Using her right arm, Brice gets her pulse and blood pressure, then respirations, passing the information along to Palmer, who relays, “Brice, Rampart says IV Ringer’s and D5-W with 10mg MS IV. Also to stabilize the arm and transport as soon as possible.”

_Better do the IV and morphine first or I won’t get far stabilizing the arm._ Brice readies the IV, telling the victim, “Alright, the hospital says we can give you some morphine, so I’m going to start an IV on you, and give you morphine that way, then I can work on your other arm. You’re going to feel a big stick here…”

She doesn’t react. She probably didn’t even feel it over all her other pain. Brice efficiently gets her hooked up, and once the morphine kicks in, he can focus on her injured arm. She’s still bleeding. He moves the arm back into place as best he can before wrapping it in gauze and bandages. A quick check of her abdomen reveals no rigidity, so at least the arm seems to be the worst of her problems.

“Bob, what have you got?”

“Abdominal bleeding and piece of wood embedded in the thigh. You?”

“Partial amputation of the humerus. Take your patient first.”

The first ambulance arrives, and it’s just pulling away with Bellingham and his victim when the second ambulance pulls up. Wexler dutifully helps Brice, handing him what he needs, helping him into the ambulance.

“Am I gonna lose my arm?”

“I don’t know, ma’am,” he says honestly, “The doctors are going to do everything they can at Rampart. If they can save it, they will, and if they can’t, they won’t waste time.”

It sounds harsh to say, but Brice has found that patients generally appreciate honesty in times like this. This one follows the pattern, just sighing and murmuring in agreement. It’s a fairly short trip to Rampart, and once there, Morton meets him at the door with a nurse and pair of orderlies.

“How is it, Brice?”

“Barely hanging on at the triceps, doctor.”

Morton clucks his tongue and takes over, issuing orders and asking the victim a series of questions. Brice stops outside the treatment room. Bellingham waits for him at the bay.

“Partial amputation, huh?”

“Might as well have been a full amputation.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes, it wasn’t hanging on by much. She’ll probably lose the arm.”

“Ya never know, kid. Sometimes, the miracles of modern medicine are amazing.”

Brice simply huffs and helps Bellingham replenish their supplies, and then they just have to wait for the squad.

“Bob, let’s do something tomorrow.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know… maybe the beach. I think that would be nice.”

“We can go to the beach, babe.”

“And we should invite Gage.”

Bellingham smiles sleepily, “And we can invite Gage. I think even if he doesn’t come, he’ll appreciate bein’ invited.”

“So do I.”

They both stifle yawns as Wexler arrives with the squad, grinning brightly.

“Jesus, kid, don’t you ever get tired?” Bellingham grumbles.

“Of course I do. I’m tired now.”

“Sure as hell don’t look like it…”

“I’m inclined to agree. I wish I could have your energy sometimes.”

“Shut up, Craig. You’re barely thirty, and I’m over here pushin’ forty. If anyone here needs extra energy, it’s me.”

“Bob, it’s nearly four in the morning. We all need energy-“

“Yeah, you need it now but I need it all the time-“

“No you don’t. You’re being dramatic-“

“Dramatic? I’m not the one who was ready to go on a witch hunt over an empty fridge-“

“I was hardly being dramatic, Bob…”

Their bickering lasts all the way back to the station, Wexler looking immensely pleased the entire time.

xXxXx

The phone rings at shift change, and Hooper calls, “I’ll get it!”

Johnny looks over at Roy, asks, “Who could be callin’ this early?”

Roy just shrugs, pulling off his boots. A moment passes, and Hooper ducks into the locker room, saying, “Hey, Johnny, it’s for you.”

“For me?”

“Yup, just for you.”

B-shift is already off on a run, so the only two people in the kitchen are the two linemen, JT Takeshi and Tommy Pontecorvo. Johnny’s almost used to the pang in his chest at seeing Pontecorvo instead of his old friend. He shrugs it off and answers the phone.

“ _Gage, it’s Brice._ ”

“Hey, Brice. What do ya need?”

“ _I just wanted to-… Well, Bob and I are going to the beach a little later today, and I wanted to invite you along. It’s been a while since we’ve seen you outside work._ ”

“Yeah, I s’pose I haven’t been real sociable lately… umm… I dunno…”

“ _If you have other plans, that’s fine, but if not… We’d just like to see you, John._ ”

Johnny closes his eyes, bites back a sigh. _Dammit, he knows just how to get to me._ He replies, “Sure- uh… Sure, Brice, that sounds good. What time?”

“ _Around eleven._ ”

“Want me to meet you somewhere?”

“ _No, we can pick you up around then._ ”

“Okay, that’s fine. Just call before ya leave.”

“ _I will. See you then._ ”

“Who was that?” Roy asks when Johnny returns to the locker room.

“Brice.”

“Brice? What did he want?”

“He, uh, he invited me to the beach with him and Bellingham,” he answers.

“Really? Are you gonna go?” Roy asks, “If ya ask me, I think you should go.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna go. I dunno, maybe it’s what I need, Roy. Reckon I haven’t been much myself lately,” Johnny says, runs a hand through his hair, “Maybe I just need to get back into doin’ shit I like doin’ instead of coopin’ myself up.”

It’s not fair to him or to anyone else what he’s been doing, isolating himself and keeping himself cooped up in his apartment. It’s been especially unfair to Roy, but sometimes Roy wants to talk about what happened, and Johnny just isn’t ready for that yet. The wounds are barely starting to scab over but are still very painful, those scabs capable of coming off any second to leave the wound raw and bleeding once more. _I can’t even say his name… can’t hardly think it…_ He pulls on his t-shirt and sneakers.

“I’m not upset,” Roy says quietly, “I think Brice and Bellingham are gonna be good for you today. Enjoy yourself, okay, Junior? Enjoy yourself.”

Roy’s probably just happy to see him doing something that’s not just sitting in his apartment. Right at quarter after eleven, Brice and Bellingham arrive in Brice’s old green truck. Johnny climbs in, slotting in between them there on the bench seat.

“Good thing you’re skinny, John,” Bellingham tells him, smirking, “or else you wouldn’t fit.”

“Probably a good thing Brice is skinny too, so we can all fit.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Brice smiles, “I think it means you’re not quite as skinny as you may once have been.”

“Well, I never was skinny like you fellas. Always been a little on the husky side.”

Brice snorts. Johnny smiles. At the beach, Bellingham sets up an umbrella and chair and pulls out a book. Brice lays out a blanket for him and Johnny to sit on.

“And I have another umbrella if we need it, Gage. I figured I would set it up a bit later. Is that alright?”

“Sounds fine, Brice.”

Johnny’s half-mesmerized by Brice. He’s used to seeing him very tight-laced and a little wound up and somewhat staid. Rarely has he ever seen Brice out of uniform, in regular civilian attire. Today, the two of them look very similar, both built long and lean, both in their swim trunks, both with shaggy brown hair. It’s a quiet weekday, nice and warm, the breeze blowing off the ocean. Bellingham stays under the umbrella, but Brice and Johnny head into the ocean to swim.

They find a sandbar to stand on, both dripping saltwater from their hair, and they just talk. Something about the sea is soothing enough that Johnny feels free to let go. They talk of their childhoods, of their school days, about running track, about friends and family and getting bullied and finding home here in the department, and it feels cathartic. Johnny doesn’t reopen the freshest wounds, but he reopens some of the old ones and lets the sea cleanse them.

He and Brice simply float together in the ocean, seeking comfort from it and each other.


	31. Ultimatum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: some blood and gruesome injuries, some language, the end being nigh
> 
> Sorry for the late post! I had a super busy day between work and a hockey game and I didn’t get to post in the afternoon so.. yeah. Here it is :)

Brice stifles a yawn as he buttons up his uniform shirt, Bellingham stepping up beside him to open his own locker.

“Full moon tonight, kid.”

“Going to be busy then.”

“Yup.”

It’s Bellingham’s turn to stifle a yawn. Prior to becoming a firefighter, Brice never believed that the phases of the moon could influence people’s behavior, but he certainly does now. Full moons usually indicate not only a busy shift but one full of strange runs also. _I need coffee… and a lot of it._ It’s going to be a long day.

Their first run is thankfully innocuous, a teen with a broken ankle. The next one is anything but. They’re called to an industrial building, a small-scale factory that makes cabinets and doors, for a man who possibly had a heart attack.

“You guys hafta help Paul! He had a heart attack or somethin’ and then fell forward onto the table saw!”

Brice almost stops in his tracks.

“He fell onto the saw?” Bellingham repeats.

“Yeah, ya gotta hurry!”

Brice isn’t quite sure what they’re going to be able to do for the man even before they see him. Once they do, it’s clear he’s already dead. The table saw ripped open his chest and tore through the ribcage. His torso is a bloody mess of bone fragments and torn flesh, his eyes wide and blank. _He is very dead._ Getting closer, Brice checks for a pulse and looks into the chest cavity to find the heart. It’s nowhere to be found, probably torn to shreds by the saw. The sight is one of the most gruesome Brice has ever seen. He decides to be completely upfront with everyone, simply saying, “I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do.”

The reaction of the other employees tells Brice they already knew. He hears Bellingham call Rampart, “We have a male victim approximately forty-five years of age, who apparently suffered a heart attack and then fell forward onto a table saw. Victim’s chest has deep lacerations that have cut through the ribcage. Victim is extremely pale and pulseless. Request permission to, uh, to call the coroner.”

Once he receives permission, Bellingham calls dispatch for them to send the coroner. A couple police officers arrive to cordon off the area where the man lay, and not long after that, the coroner pulls up. Brice rather likes Quincy. He’s an odd man, but Brice supposes one has to be a bit odd to be a medical examiner and deal with death all day.

“Hey fellas, what’ve ya got?”

“No one told you?”

“They told me, but I’m not sure I believe it,” Quincy says.

“Seems the fella had a heart attack and dropped dead, only he dropped over onto the table saw,” Bellingham replies.

“Ooh, that sounds nasty.”

“It is,” Brice adds, “and I’m afraid you may have some difficulty determining it was a heart attack. There doesn’t seem to be much of the heart left.”

“I bet not. These saws are more dangerous than they look, y’know?”

“Ya don’t hafta tell me, Quince. We’ve seen plenty of lost fingers… Anyway, we gotta head back to the station. See ya later, Quincy.”

“Yes, it was good to see you again, doctor.”

They finally return to the squad, Bellingham calling them in available.

“That Quincy’s an odd bird,” he says after a moment.

“I suppose so, but you probably would be too if you did nothing but examine dead bodies all day, Bob. It’s not an easy job… and he is very intelligent.”

“I’m not sayin’ he’s not smart. I’m just sayin’ he’s a ‘lil weird.”

Brice doesn’t respond, and he knows Bellingham doesn’t expect him to. They ride in silence for another couple of blocks before Bellingham comments, “You look tired today, kid. Everything alright?”

“Yes, everything’s fine. Ivy and Rosie are moving, and I’ve been helping them pack and take things to the house. It’s been kind of fun, and I’m very happy for them… but I’m also a bit sad to see them go.”

“They’re still close by, though, right? I mean, they’re not movin’ across the country, right?”

“They’re nearby… very close, in fact. It’s just- It’s different.”

Initially, he was very upset when they first told him they’d found a house and were moving. Those old feelings of abandonment came creeping in, just as horrible and cold as ever. Ivy and Rosie were quick to soothe him, however, promising him he could visit whenever he wanted and that they still loved him. It was enough.

“That’s okay, though,” Bellingham tells him, “Things hafta change sooner or later.”

“I know, I know… but I don’t always have to like it.”

“No you don’t, Craig.”

Brice backs the squad into its place. They’re greeted by an excited Wexler, who grins widely and babbles, “Guys, my sister sent me pictures of her baby! Look!” while practically shoving the pictures under their noses. Brice just sees a baby, but Bellingham coos over the photos as much as Wexler does. _But Bob likes children and babies… I don’t._ It isn’t long before everyone else joins in with baby photos.

“Aw, Danny, she’s precious!”

“I know! I can’t wait to meet her!”

“Denise is just gorgeous, Harry-“

“Cap, is that Corey? He’s so big now!”

“You should see the twins-“

It’s all a bit overwhelming for Brice. He just stands back and hums appreciatively when asked anything. It’s not that he hates children or would ever be horrible to them. Brice likes children. They’re interesting on occasion. He just can’t see the appeal of them. Palmer speaks up, “Man, I can’t wait to have kids, can’t wait to be a dad. Seems like a lotta work, but it also seems fun.”

That sparks a whole new conversation Brice won’t be involved in, so he quietly makes himself scarce, slipping into the dorm.

“You alright, Craig?”

Bellingham comes over and sits by him on the bunk, his concern evident.

“I’m fine. It’s just-… I don’t know. I just always feel very alienated during these sorts of conversations because I- I don’t care. Bob, I don’t care about being a parent or being in a relationship and I start to feel very alone,” he answers quietly.

“That’s okay,” Bellingham tells him, “That’s totally okay. I feel the same way sometimes. Y’know, it- it’s hard when ya don’t want what everyone tells ya you oughta want… but it’s okay to not want that stuff.”

“I know… but it can get lonely.”

“It can, but ya gotta remember you’re not alone. You’re awful lucky, though, kid… because you have me, and I have you, and we kinda want the same things.”

“What things?”

“Just a person to be with who’s gonna be there for ya, who’s got your back, who’s gonna take care of ya… but without all that messy shit.”

Brice gives a quiet laugh, says, “That sounds like a relationship.”

“Relationships are different for everyone. It’s gotta be what works. Honestly? I think whatever it is we have works, Craig, and it works damn good. That’s what matters.”

Calloused fingers carefully brush some of Brice’s hair from his forehead, and Brice’s eyes briefly slip shut at the gentle contact.

“Thank you, Bob,” he answers.

“Love you too, kid.”

In the evening, Brice and Bellingham are called out to a man who is ill. Dispatch has no information other than that the patient is vomiting.

“Not sure what we’re gonna do about it,” Bellingham grouses.

“I suppose we can drive him to Rampart,” Brice quips.

Bellingham snorts, directs him to take a turn. It’s a nice apartment building, with a central pool and well-crafted outdoor steps. Bellingham points out the correct apartment. A woman greets them at the door, ushering them in, saying, “Please, you have to look at Vince. There’s somethin’ really wrong with him.”

“What’s the problem?” Brice asks.

“Well, a few days ago, he had kinda a bad fever… had chills and body aches and all that,” she explains, “I thought he just had the flu and that’s it, but I’m pretty sure I was wrong. I’m no medical expert, but I don’t think the flu turns you yellow.”

“Yellow?”

“Yeah, his skin and eyes are yellow, and he’s been throwin’ up black stuff.”

Brice and Bellingham share a look. _That certainly doesn’t bode well._ There’s something familiar about the symptoms, but Brice can’t put a finger on it. For now, though, he doesn’t really need to know what’s causing the symptoms; he just has to treat the patient. The woman leads them to the victim. The man is yellow as a sunflower. A basin sits beside the bed, filled with thick liquid such a dark red it appears black. _Blood._ These symptoms don’t bode well for the victim.

“Take a closer look,” Bellingham says, “I’ll call it in.”

Brice goes to the victim, ready to help, and Bellingham quickly tells him, “Craig, put some gloves on. We don’t know what he has.”

With a nod, Brice agrees, grabbing a pair from the drug box. The victim looks even worse up close. His skin is so yellow it looks fake, as if he’s been painted. His lips and the corners of his mouth are caked with the blackened blood he’d vomited earlier but are tinged with a brighter red. _Mucosal bleeding._ Brice can see more blood in his nose.

“Bob, I’m seeing some scleral icterus, as well. He must be in hepatic and renal failure,” Brice says, “Victim is tachycardic and tachypnic… pulse of… 175… respirations are 35 and shallow… Blood pressure is extremely low. I believe I’m seeing signs of purpura, also.”

He listens as Bellingham calls everything in, prepares the IVs he knows Rampart will order so he’ll be ready when Bellingham relays the information back.

“Has he been out of the country recently?” Brice asks the woman.

“Umm… yeah- yes. We were in-… in Brazil about two weeks ago. You think he got something there?”

“It’s possible… Bellingham, what’s the ETA on the ambulance?”

“Should be here any minute- oh, that’s it there.”

Brice offers to ride in with the victim, and though he can see Bellingham doesn’t want him to, he refuses to let Bellingham ride in with him. _I’m younger. My immune system is better._ If the disease is easily transmittable, Brice will be able to fight it off better and more quickly. He’s already had the most contact anyway. The expression on his partner’s face as the ambulance doors close says everything that doesn’t need to be said.

xXxXx

Bob pulls the squad right in next to the ambulance, the victim already being taken inside, still very yellow. Something about the symptoms niggles at the back of Bob’s mind, something that says they should be familiar, like he’s read about them before. In Rampart, one of the nurses directs him back to the washroom. He finds Brice scrubbing hard at his hands and arms.

“You probably shouldn’t get too close, Bob.”

“They know what it is?”

“Not yet, but it’s better to be safe than sorry,” Brice replies, “It could be something highly contagious, after all.”

“Why wasn’t the girl sick, then?” Bob asks.

“She could simply be a carrier, or perhaps the disease has different stages. She said the victim had flu-like symptoms and then got worse. It could be that she was sick but didn’t go through this phase. There are some diseases like that.”

“Yeah, I know… and this one seems familiar. Where were they again?”

“Brazil.”

Bob smacks himself in the forehead, saying, “Christ, I’m an idiot.”

“You know what it is?”

“I think so. I think he has yellow fever. The symptoms all fit: the icterus, vomiting blood, purpura, the organ failure, all of it.”

Brice nods, “Yes, and yellow fever is tropical. It’s still extant in South America… and it’s only transmittable by mosquito, so we should be safe on that front, too.”

“I shoulda recognized the symptoms sooner. I just read a book on the fever a ‘lil while back. It was about that big epidemic that hit Philadelphia in 1793.”

“Yes, I heard of that… but I didn’t know there was a book. Could I borrow it?”

“Of course. Anything for you, kid,” Bob smiles.

In the corridor, Brackett confirms the diagnosis. Relief filters into Bob’s system. He’d been worried about Brice getting sick from being in contact with the victim, but since neither one of them was bit by a mosquito at the scene, they ought to be fine. Bob would have taken over treatment in a heartbeat, but he knows Brice never would have let him. The boy is too self-sacrificing. He’d walk right into Hell if it meant someone else didn’t have to.

“Bob?”

“Huh?”

“We should get back to the station.”

Bob agrees, but he doesn’t really want to go back. There’s too much to think about, a kind of cloud hanging over them they keep trying to ignore, like sitting on the beach and ignoring impending rain. He just backs the squad into its spot and heads out to the parking lot. Brice trails close behind. They sit together on the tailgate of Brice’s truck, the last vestiges of the setting sun coloring the sky. The silence between them is comfortable and calming, but Bob knows he has to break it. With a sigh, Bob quietly says, “Craig, we’ve gotta talk about this.”

“I’d prefer not to.”

“I know, but the chief wants an answer tomorrow. We hafta talk.”

Brice says nothing, and Bob knows the boy’s been avoiding the subject for a few days. _Guess I have, too._ Johnny and Roy had been at the same meeting with the chief, had been made the same offer, or rather the same ultimatum. Bob gives another sigh, says, “I know ya hate change, babe. No one likes it, but things hafta change sometime. It’s just the way of the world.”

“I’m aware of that… you’ve certainly told me enough times,” he mumbles.

“Exactly, and I’ve never lied to ya.”

“No, you haven’t.”

The boy ducks his head, and his fingers brush against Bob’s hand. _I call him a kid, a boy, but he’s damn near thirty._ He takes Brice’s hand in his own.

“Chief Arden said if we don’t choose to move up to captain now,” Bob tells him quietly, “that one day, the choice’ll be made for us. I know it’s not ideal, but I think it’s gonna be a lot less painful for us if we just choose now and do it on our own terms, Craig.”

Brice doesn’t respond except to lean into Bob, then very softly, he whispers, “I don’t wanna lose you.”

“You won’t. We’re gonna stay close, still gonna see each other whenever we want,” Bob assures him, “Besides, we still got a lot to do, remember? Got a lot to see.”

“I’ll miss working with you… and what if something happens to you, Bob? I won’t be there to help you… or if something happens to me, you won’t be there to help.”

“We’ll handle it.”

“What if-… What if the men at the station I’m sent to don’t like me?”

“You’re the captain. They don’t hafta like you. You can write ‘em up if they try to hurt ya or say anything nasty,” Bob smirks, “and if that doesn’t work, ya come to me. I’ll be a captain, too.”

Brice’s fingers twitch against Bob’s, the thought clearly not comforting him. _I’m scared too, kid._ Surreptitiously checking to see if anyone’s watching, Bob leans over and presses a kiss to Brice’s hair, squeezing his hand. Brice just presses closer.

“We’ll be okay, babe. We’ll get on the same shift or get stations near one another,” Bob tells him, “Maybe we can even rent an apartment together or somethin’ like that.”

“Could we?” Brice asks, finally looking up, “Could we live together, Bob?”

“I don’t see why not. Would save us money in the long run, too. Hell, we can start lookin’ around tomorrow if ya want… but we gotta talk to the chief tomorrow, too. We gotta tell him what we decided.”

“You could decide to move on without me.”

“No. I would never. We’re partners. Any decisions we make, we make ‘em together.”

When Brice looks up at him this time, his silvery eyes are shining.

“Bob, I really don’t deserve you.”

“Of course ya do. I wouldn’t be here if ya didn’t.”

There’s a beat, and the boy leans in to press a kiss to Bob’s cheek before suggesting, “We should go back inside. It’s getting a bit chilly.”

“You got it, kid.”

A bit after midnight, the station is called to a shady motel, and when they arrive, a police officer explains, “Buncha people were havin’ a party apparently and a fight broke out. Guy over here said he was havin’ chest pains, and we got a couple folks bloody over there.”

Brice takes Wexler and heads over to the patient experiencing chest pains, so Bob heads over to the bloodiest patient. Overall, no one else seems particularly hurt save for some bloody noses and black eyes and bruised jaws. They’re all handcuffed, about six men, all seated on the sidewalk. One of them complains loudly about being handcuffed, being detained, about his black eye, everything.

“Sir, you’re going to jail tonight because you were involved in an altercation and trashed the motel room. Everyone involved is going to jail.”

“I’m not goin’ to jail, man!”

“Yes, you are-“

“Fuck no! I’m not goin’ back to fuckin’ jail!”

The man jumps up faster than anyone could expect and takes off running, still handcuffed. Officers take chase. Bob just watches and he sees something he’s never seen before and never expected to see. The man makes a running leap and hurls himself through a window into another unit. Bob feels his eyebrows shoot up. _That was a dumb move._

“Harry, did you see that?” Bob asks.

“I sure did… but I’m not sure I believe it.”

“Guess I’ll get the kit ready.”

Bob’s surprised to find the man isn’t much worse for wear, just has a few more cuts but nothing major. _Probably gonna be in jail a bit longer, though._

“Hey, Brice, how’s your patient?”

“I’m going to take him to Rampart to be safe.”

“Need any help?”

“I should be alright, Bob. Oh, what was all that commotion about?” Brice asks.

“I’ll explain later. Want help loadin’ him up?”

“Yes, that would be nice.”

It’s easy enough. Brice’s patient is cooperative and calm, far moreso than anyone else there. Bob fights down a sudden wave of sadness. Sure, the job can be thankless and hard and exhausting, but it’s everything he’s ever wanted to do. The two partners lock eyes as the ambulance doors shut. _Yeah… I’m scared, too._ The ambulance pulls away, and Bob simply watches it go, feeling somehow lost.

The rest of the night is quiet, but Bob hates it. There’s nothing to take his mind off everything. At four, he realizes he won’t be sleeping anytime soon and just heads out into the dayroom. Chewie the cat gives one of her rasping meows, expressing her displeasure at being disturbed before going back to sleep. He still has that lost feeling, a dull ache in his chest.

“Bob?”

Brice stands there in his bunkers, suspenders loose, the pants slung lower than usual about his slender hips. He stifles a yawn and rubs at his eyes behind his glasses. The sight puts a small smile on Bob’s face. Brice walks over and sits beside him, asking, “Is everything alright, Bob?”

“Yeah, I s’pose… just freakin’ out about not bein’ a paramedic anymore, I guess.”

“You’re always the one telling me change is inevitable and to just accept it.”

“Ya hafta accept it. Ya don’t hafta like it,” Bob says.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

The boy’s expression is earnest and soft. It’s his turn to take Bob’s hand, his slender fingers wrapping around Bob’s thick ones.

“I just-… I don’t wanna not be a paramedic anymore, Craig. I’ve always wanted to do this. Even before this job existed, all I’ve ever wanted to do is help people, to make whatever’s bad better. Being a paramedic is my dream job. I, uh, I always told Terrie that I would either die as a paramedic or retire as one… that I’d be a paramedic ‘til I was seventy… Guess that’s not happening now. Just-… I’m- fuck…”

A wave of emotion rises up inside him, his voice breaking. He feels his lip tremble. Tears spill from his eyes before he can stop them, before he even knows they’re there. Brice gives a soft noise and pulls Bob into an embrace, hand cradling the back of his head. It’s a twist on their usual relationship, Brice usually being the one needing comfort. Bob simply clings to him, crying as quietly as possible. It’s a choice, but it doesn’t feel like one.

 _It’s not fair._ He feels a savage sort of envy toward Johnny and Roy. They’ve been partners since the beginning of the program, for almost ten years now. Bob and Brice have only been partners for three. It makes him angry. He wants to scream and rage and cry in the face of such unfairness, but this is not the time or the place, nor will it do him any good. Throwing a tantrum like a toddler will get him nowhere. So he just lets Brice comfort him and soothe his anger. They sit together on the couch until the sun comes up and Brice decides to make coffee. Bob goes into the latrine to splash some water on his face, not wanting anyone else to know how upset he is.

xXxXx

“So… you’re really gonna become a captain? Really gonna leave?”

Brice looks up at Wexler. He isn’t much younger than Brice, but his current expression is childlike, his brown eyes wide. Brice gives a quiet sigh. This isn’t a conversation he really wants to have when everything is so fresh, but he does like Wexler a great deal. _I owe it to him._

“We were essentially given an ultimatum to make the jump now or later, and if it was later, we wouldn’t be given the choice,” he says simply.

“It’s not much of a choice now.”

“You’re right… and it doesn’t particularly feel like one, either.”

Brice is still feeling a lot of resentment toward the department. When the offer was first made, Brice half-considered resigning out of protest, but he quickly realized that would be counter-productive. There’s just nothing he can do, and the helplessness is the worst. He feels out of control. He hates feeling out of control.

Wexler still looks hurt, and it takes Brice a moment to figure out why. They’re certainly friends, certainly care for one another. They’ve had rather intimate conversations. One conversation sticks out in particular. _That’s when he tried to flirt with me._ Brice isn’t too perceptive when it comes to flirting, so he can’t be sure. Wexler has expressed interest in both women and men, had apparently also expressed interest in Brice, but Wexler is a romantic. He comes to work all the time pining away for someone new, those dark eyes of his going hazy and wistful. Today, he only looks upset. Brice can see him pouting under his moustache.

“Danny, someone wise once told me that change is always happening and while we have to accept it, we don’t have to like it.”

“Was that someone Bob?”

“It may have been.”

“I just… I dunno, it just doesn’t seem fair.”

“I don’t think so, either.”

The lineman gives a sigh, ducking his head. Brice never thought anyone else would be so affected by his promotion. Bellingham is the only one he expected to be upset. Of course, Wexler has been through a lot during his time in the department, and this is another blow to him. He’s an inch or two taller than Brice, but he looks small just now, his shoulders slumped and his head bowed. Affection wells up in Brice’s chest. They’re alone in the dorm. _I owe it to him._

He reaches out, his fingers brushing Wexler’s elbow, and Wexler looks up at him. The sight of tears in his eyes makes Brice’s chest ache. He pulls the younger man into a hug, wraps his arms around the thick frame. Another sigh escapes Wexler, this one half-contented and half-resigned, like he’s wanted this and more but knows this embrace is all there is. Brice does feel bad be can’t reciprocate Wexler’s feelings towards him, but he can’t change who he is. He simply whispers, “When you’ve taken the engineer’s exam, please come to my station.”

“You mean it?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

“How soon can I take the exam?”

Brice gives a huff of laughter, tells him, “Whenever you’re ready, Danny.”

He doesn’t tell Wexler it’s his choice, not when he hasn’t been given one in his own promotion. He just holds the other man, tries to ease both their fears, doesn’t really know if he succeeds. _It’s the trying that matters._ So he tries.


	32. In the End I Want to be Standing at the Beginning With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: so sweet your teeth may hurt
> 
> (it is technically thursday where i am :)

It’s cold, very cold, but Brice had expected that. It’s February and they’re in Montana, after all. He’s sure they look absurdly bundled compared to the locals, being two men from warmer climes, though none of the locals has batted an eye so far. Everyone’s been so polite and helpful to all the tourists there for the event, many just as bundled up as Brice and Bellingham, unaccustomed to cold and snow.

“Now, what are these again?” Bellingham asks.

“They’re glasses with a filter we can see the eclipse through,” Brice explains, “I got them from Starrett’s daughter, Ellie. I met her at Stoker’s promotion party, and we’ve remained in contact. She works for NASA now on a variety of projects like-“

“Craig…”

“Anyway, I mentioned we were coming here to view the eclipse, and she sent me these. She says they work very well.”

“Guess I can trust someone from NASA when it comes to space.”

Their breath mingles in front of them, rises like smoke from their noses and mouths. Brice, for one, has never been this cold in his whole life save for a few occasions when he’s had rescues in walk-in freezers. He almost gives in to the childish temptation to pretend he’s a dragon of some sort… almost. They’re headed to a spot in the middle of Polson that they scoped out yesterday. The morning is freezing, and Brice walks close to Bellingham, trying to take in some of his warmth.

“You okay, kid?” Bellingham asks.

“Yes, Bob, I’m fine. Just very cold.”

“Cold kinda suits you, though. Ya look awful cute with your ‘lil red nose and cheeks,” Bellingham teases, reaching for his face.

Brice pushes his hand away with a laugh, but Bellingham’s arm darts out to drape an arm over his shoulders, quite a feat in their thick jackets. No one gives them a second glance as they make their way through the small crowd of people. It’s like a little party happening in the town. People are out with their dogs, couples hold hands, children run and laugh. There are a few vendors out selling hot drink and food, too.

“Feels almost like a fair or somethin’,” Bellingham comments.

“Yes, I was just thinking that, Bob.”

“Great minds think alike.”

The big man grins broadly, a smile radiant and warm. Brice smiles in return. His fingers twitch in his pocket, seized with the desire to hold his hand. _But we can’t. Not in public._ The thought infringes on his joy slightly, but he tries to ignore it as best he can. Everything else about the morning is so wonderful and good. Bellingham buys them hot coffee from a vendor.

 _This whole trip is amazing._ They drove up to Polson, Montana from LA over a couple days, wanting to take their time since they have a week and a half off. Brice hasn’t has a proper vacation in years, one where he was going to relax rather than visit Crawford or go to some conference, and he wants to spend as much time as possible with Bellingham before their official promotions. He does lean in close to Bellingham. That he can get away with in the freezing weather.

They use the glasses to check the sun every so often, and after about two hours, the eclipse reaches totality, the area darkening as if it were night, a bit of a wind whipping up and blowing strands of brown hair into Brice’s face even with his hat on. _It feels like… like…_

“It feels like magic of some kind,” Brice whispers, finally able to look up without the glasses, hoping Bellingham will hear him over the people cheering, “Ancient magic…”

“It is… the most ancient magic, Craig,” he replies, “Been here since the beginning of time, and it’s gonna be here long after we’re gone.”

“I know. I find that thought rather comforting.”

He needs to know there are constants, especially when everything in his life is changing. He and Bellingham are renting an apartment together, just as they said they would, though Bellingham has expressed interest in buying a house. (“Just be somethin’ a ‘lil more permanent,” he’d explained, “and it’d be a good investment. We oughta look into it.”) Brice thinks he would like that. It could be just the kind of stability he’s seeking.

“Are you enjoying yourself, babe?” Bellingham asks softly.

“Yes… Yes, I’m having a wonderful time,” he replies honestly, “This is perfect.”

Bellingham smiles, “I’m glad,” and leans in a bit closer. Once all is said and done with the eclipse, they decide to explore this small town they’re staying in, grabbing lunch in a little café.

“We should come back when it’s warmer, Bob,” Brice says once they’re finished eating, both sipping black coffee, “We would have much more time to explore the area, maybe visit Yellowstone… we could go camping, maybe, if you like camping.”

“I could be into camping. We could try it.”

Brice is shaking by the time they return to their hotel. It’s a small one, run by a Bitterroot Salish family, and it’s very clean and well-kept. The only problem is that the hot water doesn’t last very long and takes a long time to replenish, so it’s good Brice and Bellingham have no qualms about each other. They quickly strip off all their heavy gear. Brice’s skin and limbs feel hot and itchy as the blood rushes back to the surface, seeking long-awaited warmth.

Just as they did yesterday, the two men get in the shower together, wanting to make the most of the hot water. It’s a small shower, but they’re able to maneuver easily enough. The only time they really touch is when Bellingham offers to wash Brice’s hair. It’s an extremely intimate act, but Brice allows it because he knows Bellingham enjoys it and because it feels good. It feels nice to have someone show they care in such a deeply personal way. After they’re done and dried off and redressed, they turn on the radio as they curl up together on one of the beds.

“My hair always feels much nicer when you wash it, Bob.”

“That’s because I can see what I’m doin’ and I take my time. You shower like you’re gonna miss somethin’ and always leave a ‘lil shampoo behind.”

“And you’re an expert?”

“Of course I am.”

Brice gives a little laugh and nestles in close against Bellingham’s side. The joyous excitement he felt earlier during the eclipse is waning away as the thoughts about their promotion come flooding back in. They haven’t been partners as long as some, only a few years, and Brice had been convinced they’d be partners until Bellingham was forced to retire, and only then would Brice move up the ladder. He can’t imagine being without his partner.

“You okay, kid? You’re lookin’ kinda thoughtful.”

“It’s just strange… I’ve spent so long thinking of you as my partner… and now, in about a month, neither one of us will have partners anymore.”

“Craig, we’re still partners. We’ll be partners forever.”

“Life partners?” Brice asks, smirking, “That’s a bit too romantic even for you.”

“I guess it does sound a ‘lil different when you put it that way, but essentially, yeah,” Bellingham replies simply, “All I can say is we’ll still be partners in every way that matters, so don’t worry. You just relax and don’t worry about this promotion, Craig. You’re gonna do fine.”

“You think so?”

“Of course. After all, ya learned from the best, right?”

“Of course I did.”

“Good answer, babe.”

Bellingham’s arm tightens around him, and Brice allows himself to feel loved and comforted, forgetting all about the upcoming changes.

xXxXx

“Are you ready?”

“I guess so. Why can’t ya tell me where we’re goin’?”

“Because it’s a surprise, Bob. Aren’t I allowed to surprise you?”

“Of course you are-“

“Then be surprised. Come on, let’s go.”

Bob just follows the boy down to his truck. They’re both in jeans and t-shirts, Brice looking ridiculously ordinary. The big ceremony for their promotion is in two days, and Bob can’t say he’s feeling too excited. He puts up a good front, tries to be a good example to Brice and Johnny and Roy in terms of gracefully accepting change, but it’s harder as the day comes closer. _Maybe I can let that mask slip a little today…_

For now, he just lets Brice drive. The radio plays softly, and when one station fades out, Bob reaches down to switch to a new music station. The weather is comfortable, neither too warm nor too cool. Brice just takes them down less traveled highways. There are barely any other cars on these roads, and none of them are traveling their way. _It is a weekday, though._ Bob just leans back, closes his eyes, breathes in the fresh desert air.

He must fall asleep because he’s suddenly aware the truck is no longer moving, and Brice is gently shaking his shoulder, whispering, “Bob, we’re here. Wake up.”

Bob stretches, rubs at his eyes, looks out the window, gasps. Brice has pulled his truck off the road at the edge of a colorful expanse of wildflowers that stretches as far as he can see. He lets the tears fill his eyes. Brice practically has to help him out of the truck, gently holding his arm. _Magic… like Brice said in Montana… Ancient magic…_

“Are you happy, Bob?”

“Ye- Yes. I’m very happy.”

“Good. Happy birthday.”

They walk for a long while among the desert flowers, marveling at the variety and vibrant colors. Their silence is comfortable and almost reverent.

“I can’t believe you remembered this, Craig. I told you about this, like, one time and that was years ago.”

“I remember everything you say,” Brice says with a smile, “I want to make you happy, Bob, as happy as you’ve made me these last few years. Is it working?”

“Yeah, judgin’ by my waterworks, I’d say it’s workin’ fine.”

Brice smiles a little wider. They remain for about another half an hour before returning to the truck to eat some sandwiches Brice packed. From there, Brice drives a little further up the highway so they can be surrounded by flowers on both sides, then turns to take them back home. The ride home is more raucous and fun, both singing loudly with the radio. Bob drapes his arm over the back of the bench seat, fingers occasionally dancing over Brice’s shoulder. It’s comfortable, what they have between them, very comfortable. Bob sometimes feels they’ve known each other forever and not just nine years.

“Craig, do you believe in fate and soulmates and all that shit?” he asks.

“Not really, no. This job has made me a bit more superstitious in various regards, but I’m still not a believer in fate and that sort of thing. Why do you ask?”

“I was just thinkin’… I mean, we haven’t really known each other all that long, but I feel like I’ve known you my whole life,” Bob admits, “We just fit so well together right off the bat when we’d never worked with each other before… I dunno, guess what I’m tryin’ to say is you’re kinda like my soulmate.”

Brice flushes a deep red and can’t seem to come up with a response. Thankfully, they’re almost home, so the silence doesn’t last too long. They simply climb two quick flights of stairs to their apartment and put away a few things. Bob turns to speak to Brice, but the boy beats him to it. His slender frame presses against Bob’s torso, arms wrapping around his neck.

“I don’t believe in soulmates,” the boy whispers.

“I know,” Bob replies, embracing him back.

“I never have. It always seemed very silly to me, to have some supernatural force determine who one should spend the rest of their life with. Perhaps it’s because I never wanted one or never thought I would have one… but… There must be soulmates of different kinds, Bob. You’re my friend, the greatest and closest friend I will ever have… and I believe you are my soulmate, also… and I love you… very much.”

He says all of this while looking directly into Bob’s eyes, says it with such intensity that Bob feels his heart might burst. He smiles with happy tears in his eyes and butts his forehead up against Brice’s, softly telling him, “And I love you very much, Craig. Never forget that.”

Brice murmurs, “I won’t. I promise,” and leans in. He presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Bob’s mouth, peppers his jawline with more, goes to bury his face in Bob’s shoulder. Bob quickly catches the boy’s chin and rests their foreheads together once more. It’s a quiet moment, extraordinarily intimate in nature. They simply stand together, foreheads touching, breathing each other’s breath. In a few minutes, the intimate moment will pass. They will go about the day as any other friends would. _But for now…_ For now, they have the moment, and for Bob that’s enough.

“I’m glad I met you, Bob.”

“It’s almost nine years ago on the nose, I think.”

“In another month. Do you remember how we met?” Brice smirks.

“Craig, how in the hell could I forget? I recall havin’ to patch you up in a bar of all places…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the end! It's been a wild ride and quite a fun one! I want to thank everyone who's been reading this fic from the beginning, everyone who joined partway through, and everyone who's reading this as a completed work. You're all superstars (^v^)
> 
> If you haven't already, please check out my related fics in this series and all my other Brice+Bellingham works.
> 
> Thank you again, dear readers <3


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